Let the Curtain Fall
by Mike2
Summary: Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored; Light dies before thine uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.
1. Prologue

Let the Curtain Fall  
  
Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;  
Light dies before thine uncreating word:  
Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;  
And universal darkness buries all.  
-The Dunciad  
  
Prologue:  
  
Ranma recovered quickly from the teeth-jarring impact of the boulder, even as his enemy did the same. The howling cyclonic winds on which he hovered quickly tore the stone away. He could not afford to acknowledge the pounding pain in his head, the burning of his skin as speeding sand tore and flailed him raw; he could neither blink nor turn away to alleviate the pain: too much was at stake.  
With smooth, sure twists and steps he wove his way nearer his opponent, dodging and ducking wayward stones still caught in the maelstrom of his own making. Ryouga's 'reinforcements' proved more help than hindrance: as he moved in closer, riding the chunk of rock and ice he was firmly attached to by his weapon, the boulders provided extremely good cover. Necessary cover, for with a cry of "Why, you!" Saffron began to unleash savage dual blasts of energy, incinerating every and any threat that neared his person.  
And yet, in doing so, his enemy revealed a desperation that his earlier posturing had served to conceal. Th . . . this panic, Ranma realized, there's no doubt about it! Saffron's weak--he's vulnerable to simple kicks and punches! Galvanized by the recognition that his foe might not, after all, be invulnerable, the martial artist swooped in during a moment's distraction on his enemy's part. "Eat this!" he screamed, "Chokusetsu Shuuda Ryuuseikyaku!" Concealed until the last instant by his crystalline boulder, carried nearer by the fierce winds of the Hiryu Shoten Ha, he swung around the pole of the Gekkaja and, already moving with considerable momentum, drove his full weight into the 'Meteor Leg Direct Strike.'  
Without a sound, eyes open but empty, the lord of Phoenix Mountain tumbled away into the center of the cyclone. Ranma felt a savage, bitter pleasure as Saffron disappeared among the violent turbulence that swirled at the root of the Hiryuu Shouten Ha. "Serves you ri. . . ," he started to mutter, when a rumble from below cut him off. His eyes widened in disbelief--and fear--as unnatural and terrifying power swelled and ballooned outward from the center of the tornado. The hungry, plasmic bubble swallowed everything that the winds carried into its mass. Before he could even think of disengaging, Ranma felt himself being drawn in as the swell below him collapsed in upon itself. A great gout of flame reached towards him; only by placing his crystalline boulder between himself and the attack did he manage to survive.  
Out of the fiery upheaval below rose a figure. Saffron spread his wings wide. He suffused the very air with his primal glow, and his gaze as he fixed his antagonist with undisguised contempt was both beautiful and terrible to behold. How like an angel he looks, thought Ranma, then dismissed the errant idea. No time, no room for distractions. Focus. Focus on the flying beat of your own heart, on the thrill of blood rushing through your body. On the icy chill pressed to your chest.  
"Ha!" said Saffron, lips curling up in a sneer, "Looks like you've gotten a little too carried away, peasant. It is over."  
Ranma braced himself for the worst, thinking, dammit, if this fight drags out any longer, Akane and I are both. . .  
And then Saffron was calling to the heavens, arms spread and glowing with manifest rage: "Phoenix Mountain Royal Family Ultimate Technique!" He brought his arms together, crossed at the elbows, and sudden fire erupted about him.  
"A fireball!" Ranma exclaimed, as the Lord of Jusendo completed his attack.  
"Tenka Shunmetsu Koukyuudan!"  
-Not- a fireball, Ranma realized, as the full might of Imperial Armageddon blast was revealed, looming surrealistically before him. Unending flame filled his sight, the horizon stained red with its taint, and in the face of that awful power he knew that there was nothing he could do. Who was he, who was -he-, young, human, mortal, to assume such an arrogant air and presume to oppose something so primal, so immortal? He was nothing but a man, suspended between heaven and earth. Nothing but a man, hanging at the threshold between scorching light and unknowable darkness. Nothing but a man with a soul of ice and an impossibly chill pressure gripped against heart and chest.  
There was a brief, epiphanic, eternal moment, suspended between full realization, awareness, and oblivion--a moment in which all suddenly became clear, in which, finally, he understood--a moment before the flames consumed him--and then. . .  
  
. . . with a strangled, startled yelp, Ranma bolted upright in bed.  
The sheets stuck tenaciously to his sweat-soaked body. His heart pounded in his chest as he sucked down rapid gulps of air. "Shit," he muttered. "Shit." The room was empty. This momentarily surprised him, but as his head cleared, so did the unease at waking alone. It was -his- room, after all, his bed and clothes and furniture, so of course he was alone. His father would be with his mother in their own room now; they were back in their own house. It's probably for the best that Pop's not here, Ranma thought, if he heard me screaming like that in the middle of the night, he'd be going on and on 'bout how womanly I sound.  
And yet, though he loathed to admit to himself how shaken the dream -- that damned, recurring, haunting dream -- had left him, he almost wished for the company to alleviate the nagging fear his nightly phantasm left behind. Nagging, pathetic fear, for what had he to worry about? Waking up in the middle of the night like this, screaming about some stupid fight that happened months ago, he told himself, what's wrong with me? It's not like I lost or anything, not like Akane . . . died or nothing. I kicked Saffron's ass. . .  
_primal flame, heat; pervasive chill of death_  
But it had been so close, so very, very. . .  
_love lying dead in his arms, too late, too slow_  
Close.  
_glorious suspension between Heaven and Earth_  
Ranma shook his head to clear it of the last tenacious fragments of meaningless images. He shook his head and turned over in his futon. He willed himself back to sleep. After all, as his mother had reminded him frequently over the last week, he had a very big day tomorrow.  
  
Begins in:  
  
Let the Curtain Fall Act One, Chapter One: Higher Education 


	2. Higher Education

Let the Curtain Fall

            Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;

            Light dies before thine uncreating word:

            Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;

            And universal darkness buries all.

            _The Dunciad_

Act One,

Part One:

Higher Education

Staring indifferently out the window, watching the urban landscape blur past, he wished for the intermittent wooden clacking of an older train, but heard nothing from the bullet train that carried him away from Nerima.  The terrain they passed was unfamiliar to him and he found that strange, for he must have come this very way at some point in the past with his father during their training voyage.  But that had been by foot, of course, or by bike, or by local line if finances had allowed for it; either way, it had all been a very long time ago, and never at these speeds that reduced the wealth of details to insignificant phantoms.  He yearned for those personal minutiae, the touches that salvaged the otherwise mundane and identical locales from irrelevance; he yearned yet didn't dare suggest slowing the inevitable progress of the train that carried him towards a future his parents assured him was both exciting and necessary, and the achievement of what he had thus far worked towards all his life.

            He pulled his gaze from the window.  Across from him sat his mother, looking small but refined in contrast with the bulk of his father squeezed into the seat next to her.  His mother flashed a brief smile his way before returning her attention to the magazine at hand; his father released another snore.  In the seat beside Ranma sat Akane.

            Eyes lingering longer than any single glance warranted, he searched her over for indications of harm, and frowned at the fading bruise still marring her left forearm.  He noted that the ugly yellowed centre had finally faded to a diffused brown.  He still felt angry at himself for having caused it.  Otherwise, she seemed fine, and Ranma had to admit that, on this trip to decide their collective future, she appeared far more at ease than he currently felt.  In fact, she looked far more rested than he could ever remember seeing her.  She sat, leaning back slightly, legs crossed at the knees, reading attentively from some book, the sun streaming in from the window highlighting the yellow trim of her skirt, the detailing on her sleeves, a brief flash of white as she smiled at something she read.  Uncute?  Hardly, nor had he had occasion to call her such in some time.  School was all but over now, but in the incessant studying demands of the final stretch leading to the university entrance exams, it seemed there had been little reason to fight at all.  Little reason, and even less time, to do anything.  Pulling away momentarily, so that his continued staring wouldn't draw anyone's attention, he returned his gaze to the rapidity-dulled landscape passing by.  Listening to the silence of their passage (broken only by his father's snores) quickly proved boring, and suddenly heavy eyelids drooped as he leaned against the smooth plane of the window.

            Life had been peaceful since their return from China.  Peaceful, if you discounted the part with the wedding, and a rueful grin sneaked onto his face at the memory.  What a mess that had been.  But the next day had been business as usual, there were classes to attend, tests to prepare for.  The brief furor owing to the explanation of where they had been, and what had happened at the wedding, died down quickly, and Ranma's smile faded as he remembered the tedium that then followed.  Studying, school work, reading, the everyday demands of everyday life.  Not that he minded, at first.  Jusendo had taken a lot out of him, and if his stupid nightmares were any indication, he was only now realizing just how much the experience had truly demanded.  School had proved a welcome distraction, and contrary to popular belief, he wasn't half the academic nitwit so many people (Nabiki, for sure, and sometimes he suspected Akane as well) thought he was.  Hadn't he passed the very same entrance exams as they, to gain entrance into Furinkan?  Hadn't he pulled off passable grades despite the frequent interruptions of his unique lifestyle?  Let's see anyone else master the intricacies of algebra while a pig with a grudge gnawed on their big toe!

            But as a sustained effort, studies soon grew dull. . . and no one seemed willing to entertain his desire to spar.  Following Jusendo, his numerous opponents seemed to melt away.  Ryouga was rarely around following the failed wedding, and he suspected the lost boy was spending more time with his other true love, Akari.  Mousse seemed reluctant to challenge him, and Kunou was already graduated and gone, and Ranma was surprised at how much he missed both the duck and the dunce.  More telling, perhaps, was that in moving back into his parents' house (repaired a few months after the wedding attempt) there were fewer opportunities to antagonize Akane.

            Most surprisingly (and here, his eyes glided over to his father's sleeping form) even his father had eased off on the training -- eased off considerably, and it showed in some of the extra girth Genma now carried with him.  At first Ranma took it as a compliment, for obviously his father finally recognized his son's skill after what had been displayed at Jusendo; but now, he saw his father's skills flagging, and while his own abilities might be as excellent as ever, the loss of the morning training sessions left a hollowness to his day.  He barely ever saw his father any more, it seemed, what with the old man working those absurd hours his mother had insisted Genma take, and spending his free time with Mr. Tendo.

            His eyes slid from his father and were, once again and this time almost unwillingly, pulled back to his fiancee.  Where he had found boredom, she seemed to have prospered, pulling off great grades and returning to an active social life, hanging around with Sayuri and Yuka, Hiroshi and Daisuke, while he usually seemed to somehow miss the call to go out.  But he couldn't begrudge her enjoyment of the unusual peace of the past few months, nor regret how relaxed, how comfortable, how damned -cute-, she now looked.  Far less the tomboy, and if not quite an adult, nevertheless someone who seemed very assured in what she was doing and with where she was headed.  Somehow, he was positive he hadn't quite achieved that same level of maturity she now seemed to exhibit; somehow, he wasn't positive he ever wanted to.

            And besides, he told himself, and grinned, she might've matured, even physically, but she still ain't half as good-looking as I am!  Oh sure, he had to admit, not too many people would make the mistake of calling her a tomboy anymore -- but she wasn't the only one who had developed.  Weren't his breasts still larger, his body's curves softer, more sinuous?  His smile grew.  And as for his real body. . . well, it wasn't like he'd been short on invitations to the Furinkan prom.  (Akane hadn't been happy about _that_, and his smile grew further at the memory.)

            In comparing his own form to Akane's, his gaze passed along the lines of her figure before slipping down to the book that she was reading; and his grin twisted into a scowl.

            She glanced up, and he swallowed his grimace and slipped a forced smile into place.  "Yes?" she asked, eyes curious but, it seemed, filled with a certain apprehension or guilt.  He didn't fail to notice as she surreptitiously shuffled the thin booklet in her hand to the bottom of the pile she had sitting in her lap.

            "What are you reading?" he asked, pretending not to notice.  She must realize I saw, he thought, but will we play this game one more time?

            "This?" she said, gesturing at the booklet that now sat on top.  "The university's guide.  Doesn't it look fantastic?"  And the way she said it, he could almost believe the enthusiasm in her voice.  "It really looks like a great place.  Full range of faculties, some nice residences, they've even got a number of decent martial art clubs.  I think we were lucky to be accepted.  I can't wait to get there and see it."

            He agreed with her, and played along, and looked through the guide book with her, and feigned interest at the highlights she pointed out, all along aware of the other booklet that peeked out from beneath, the one she had so attentively been reading before: the book from Tokyo University, to which she had been accepted, and he had not.

            As Ranma Saotome looked about the campus through which his parents were leading him, he felt filled with a curious mix of both interest and apathy.  It was his first time visiting a university campus.  It was busy.  People, rushing about with sharp eyes, an intensity of expression, harried but somehow content with their burden.  A vibrant energy, alien yet somehow tantalizingly familiar, underscored their action, drew them in and in combination created a lively undercurrent that made the campus appear as much more than the simple collection of buildings and concrete and students that it truly was.  That sense of purpose appealed to him, even if he could not fully understand it.  It was an unconscious appraisal of this strange place, and at that instinctive level, it interested him greatly.

            He hadn't known what to expect.  Furinkan, on a larger scale, perhaps?  His apathy returned and grew alongside the suspicion that if he looked past the welcoming banners, the displays of art and impressive building fronts, and the few among the many who moved with attentiveness of being; that if he looked past the gloss of all those things, all he would find would be his old high school -- fatter, older, mostly unchanged --  all over again.  After three years of that, he had no intention of repeating himself.  He needed to move forward.

            Yet how could university be a step backwards, if it caused such enthusiasm in Akane?

            "Ranma!  Ranma, come look!"  She called to him from across the walkway, gesturing for him to join her at the base of a tall, brick building.  He could hear the excitement that bubbled beneath every word, even at a distance.  And as he trudged over to her, shouldering his surprisingly heavy pack and shielding his eyes from the bright sun overhead, he could clearly see the happiness infusing her features.  If this place makes her smile like that, he wondered, can it really be so bad?

            But then, she's just acting that way for your benefit, he reminded himself.  This place, what does it have to offer her, really?  Very little, in the end, and certainly nothing she couldn't get better, elsewhere.

            He looked up at the building when he joined her.  It reached twenty stories up into a cloudless, sunny sky, row upon row of small windows gleaming painfully with reflected light.  Student housing, he guessed, from what he could glimpse through the glass of the lower floors, and from what he could see of the people entering and leaving through the first-floor door.  This could very well prove to be his future home.  I could do worse, he told himself.

            "Doesn't it look great?" Akane asked, gesturing at the building.

            He shrugged, and ignored the brief flash of -- annoyance, disappointment -- that crossed her eyes.  "I dunno.  Guess so.  Seems a strange way to live, so many people stacked one atop another."  He tried to gauge the size of a room from what he could see of the outside.  "I don't suppose there'd be all that much room to train."  He thought another moment, scratching at the nape of his neck.  "There's probably enough room on the roof, 'though I don't suppose they'd be too happy with that kinda thing."  Thinking the concept funny, he offered up a grin to Akane, only to receive a dark glower in return, and a muttered 'jerk,' before she turned her back on him.

            "C'mon," she said over her shoulder.  "Your parents are trying to set up a tour of the residence.  It'll be fun."

            Don't do me any favours, he thought darkly, and followed her in.

            Through a crowded entrance lined with pigeon-hole mailboxes, past a bored-looking receptionist who greeted them with nothing more than an indifferent glance, and finally Ranma joined his parents and Akane in the lobby.  Twin elevators offered access to the floors above, and after a brief description of some of the building's facilities (to which Ranma lent only half an ear) the patiently smiling guide pressed the button and explained that he would now bring them to see one of the rooms.

            "What floor?" asked his father.

            "The seventeenth," answered the guide.

            "We'll meet you up there," he said, and grabbed Ranma by the arm and dragged him towards the stairs.  "A martial artist always takes the road less travelled."

            "Hey, old man, I don't wanna-"

            "Shut up, boy!" answered Genma, with a slap across the back of Ranma's head.  "Enough of your laziness."  Only once the elevator doors closed, carrying a bemused Akane and Nodoka up and away, did he loosen his grip.

            "What's up?" asked the younger Saotome, knocking his father's hand off.  "You see someone drop five yen in the stairwell?"

            "Enough backtalk," growled Genma.  "Come on, we don't want to keep the girls waiting."

            Ranma followed his father as they began climbing the square, featureless concrete stairwell up to the second floor.  "If we don't want to keep them waiting, why didn't we take the elevator with them?"

            The only answer was silence, which lasted until the fourth floor, at which point his father paused, levelled a disgusted glare at him, and asked, "What the hell's wrong with you, boy?"

            "Whadd'ya mean?  There's nothing. . . ."

            "Your attitude stinks," Genma stated, then resumed climbing.

            Sixth floor, Ranma: "There's nothing wrong with my attitude."

            Seventh floor, Genma: "Ungrateful!  Spoiled!"

            Eight: "Spoiled?  When the hell have you -ever- spoiled me?"

            Nine: "You think your mother and I paid all that money to put you through high school for nothing?"

            Ranma stopped, and his father didn't notice until rounding the corner and reaching the tenth.  Yelling up to Genma, he demanded, "What's that got to do with anything?"

            "Try to show some enthusiasm, boy!  This is supposed to be the best time of your life!"

            "Says who?"

            "Your mother."  Fact established, Genma returned to climbing.

            A moment later, Ranma jogged and caught up with him on the eleventh floor.  "-Mother- says?  What about you?"

            Genma shrugged.  "What do I know?  I didn't even finish high school.  University seems a waste of time to me, but your mother insists it's for your own good.  'It's the modern age,' she says, 'a man without a diploma in Japan is nothing.'  Who am I to argue with your mother?"  He continued his ascent.  "I mean, what use is a degree in History when the boy's going to teach martial arts, I said," he muttered under his breath.  "But what do I know, I'm just a big, fluffy panda bear!  Not like I didn't spend the last ten years raising the kid, I mean, why should -I- have anything to say in the matter?"

            "Don't -I- have any say?" asked Ranma.

            "No," answered his father, passing the thirteenth floor.  He stopped on the fourteenth when Ranma, leaping up a story through the stairwell, landed ahead of him and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

            "What the hell do you mean, 'no'?" he yelled.  "When the hell do I get to make a choice, then?"

            "Don't ask me, ask your mother.  You want to disappoint her?  You go talk to her.  Don't you want to go to university?"

            Ranma released his father, arms falling limply at his side, and offered no resistence as Genma shrugged by.  "I dunno."

            "Then quit your complaining.  And stop moping.  All you're managing to do is hurt your mother and anger your fiancee.  Stop whining like a girl and suck it up like a man."

            Is that what I've been doing, Ranma wondered, silently falling in behind his father, whining?  Everyone else seemed to be enjoying this outing, far more than he was, anyway.  Perhaps Akane's enthusiasm was genuine, his mother's hope real: maybe university was the next logical step.  Why else did he go to high school, if not this?  And yet, as he rounded the corner of the sixteenth floor, he couldn't help but wonder: what would be the next 'logical' step after university?

            He pulled his father back at the door to their destination floor.  "Old ma. . . er, Pops.  Dad.  What do -you- think I should do?"

            "The truth, son?" Genma answered, and for a brief moment he looked far older than Ranma ever remembered seeing him, eyes duller, skin greyer.  "It doesn't matter what I think anymore.  All I want is for you to marry that girl and to start teaching our Art.  All I want is to retire and play shogi with Soun.  That's all I want."

            The door opened easily on well-oiled hinges.  Genma passed through and rejoined his wife and future daughter-in-law, and the door closed silently on his son, still standing quietly on the landing at the seventeenth floor.

            "So, as you can see, each floor has its own kitchen and dining area," the guide was saying, "as well as a coin-operated washing machine and dryer."  Ranma, hanging back from the group, was barely paying attention.  He adjusted the straps on his pack, now uncomfortable, and thought of the brief exchange he had shared with his father.  He had seen so little of him lately, and only now he began to suspect it had not been entirely of Genma's doing.  But why would his mother want her own husband to stay away from their only son?

            Well, you don't need to be a genius to take a shot at that one, he mused.  Pop's a bit of an idiot, and he's made some pretty stupid decisions in the past. . . but he -is- my father, and he's been with me for the last ten years.  I mean, I don't really miss sharing a room with him anymore, but. . . what, no sparring, even, anymore?  Mom wants me to be a martial artist too, right, and even if Pop's not that great anymore, he's still got some tricks up his sleeve, he's still a great teacher, why deprive me of that?

            As Ranma considered it further, he came to realize just how much he had missed his shitty, lazy old panda of a father.  It seemed a strange place to make such a discovery.  He took in the cramped room, the dim illumination, the months-old notices on the display board, the musty smell of haphazardly-washed old walls, and wondered how no one could realize that, in this mundane hallway that had seen the passage of thousands, one young man had just discovered the simple fact that maybe he truly loved his father.  He wondered why he did.  It wasn't a simple matter of shared appreciation for an Art, though that was certainly part of it.  Perhaps it was a matter of companionship.  After travelling for so long, he had come to believe it normal for a son to spend so much time with his father: day after day, weeks, years, across the length of Japan and even China, spent in constant contact with one another.

            What a surprise, then, when he discovered how many of his friends came from broken families, or families where the parents and children rarely talked, or even interacted.  Families where the father was nothing more than a distant figure, regularly bringing back money, perhaps, and demanding certain basic formalities, but otherwise a non-consideration in their lives.  One thing my father's never done, Ranma thought, was ignore me.  He may have been stupid, crude, even brutal at times, but never once did I know the fear that he might some day leave me, abandon me.  His low, deep rumble as he slept by my side was a comfortable reassurance, no matter what strange place we happened to be.

            Why would Mom want to break that up? he wondered.

            "Bathrooms and showers, of course, are communal, one for males and another for females," said the guide.  Ranma saw the slight, unconscious tensing of his mother's back, and suddenly understood why he now saw so little of his father.  The curse, of course.  A serious problem if one had to share bathing facilities.  And a severe disappointment, Ranma knew, to a mother who expected after ten years of separation that her son would be a man among men; no matter what she said to the contrary, he could see the regret gnawing at her in moments of weakness, when she looked at him.  It didn't matter that, for the most part, he had mostly resigned himself to having a female side for the rest of his life; the aftermath of the battle at Jusendo, and the terrible damages wreaked upon Jusenkyo itself, had left little choice to that decision.  But if he could bring himself to forgive his father -- and it was only at this moment that Ranma realized that perhaps he truly had forgiven Genma -- then certainly she could as well.

            "And now we'll move on to an actual room," said the guide.  "If you'll just fo -- oh, excuse me."

            Ranma snapped back to attention at a sudden interruption.  As the guide moved to lead the group towards one of the rooms, he nearly bumped into two men blocking his way.  The first person he barely noted, catching a cursory glimpse of a tall, thin man with greying hair, narrow glasses, a hat; he barely noticed the first because the second immediately demanded his full attention.

            He's a martial artist, he thought, and he's damn good.  Without conscious thought the reflexive looseness with which he carried himself in the face of potential, serious danger filtered throughout his body, and he held himself in that deceptive state of readiness that left him able to react instantly without suggesting threatening intent.  Without shifting focus, he noted that his father had readied himself similarly, if not as subtly.

            Who is he, Ranma thought, another potential student, like me?  No, too old for that, he's already in his twenties.  A student, then?  Doubtful; the undercurrent that drives this man, I can understand.  Japanese -- no, something else as well.  Strong, tough, the loose shirt doesn't fool me, there's serious strength being restrained there, coiled, ready, he's deceptively relaxed.

            Their eyes met, briefly, and in that moment Ranma knew he was being sized up as well.  The heir to the Saotome school of Indiscriminate Grappling stared into yellow-green eyes, and read nothing of intent, of either fear or hostility.  The curious game of concealment and identification lasted but for a second -- the shortest of hesitations in the man's smooth, measured stride -- and then their gazes separated, and with that contact broken Ranma felt the match end.  He followed his mother and Akane away.  The stranger passed close as he stepped the other way, and as they crossed paths, they gave each other the slightest of nods of acknowledgement.  Two practitioners of similar arts recognizing and respecting the other's achievement, before going their individual ways.

            Only several seconds later, the blood still singing through his body, feeling invigorated and alive in a way he hadn't all day, did he allow himself to truly relax.  This, he told himself, is what I'm looking for, this is the education I want.  What school can offer an experience such as I've just felt?

            "Did you notice the man?" asked his father in a low voice, falling in next to him.

            "Tall, young guy," answered Ranma, "half-Japanese.  About eighty, solid build, wearing black jeans, boots, muscle-shirt, leather jacket.  Green eyes.  Ugly-looking.  Something wrong with his left arm, he carried it oddly and kept it close and hidden inside his jacket.  Definitely a martial artist, and a good one, too -- I couldn't read him at all."  Ranma grinned.  "Yeah, you could say I noticed him."

            "Don't be cocky, boy," said Genma, and the heavy seriousness of his voice silenced the younger Saotome's protest.  "That boy was strong; the man was dangerous."

            "He was old.  He wasn't even a martial artist, Pop."

            "You've still got things to learn, son."

            Ranma glanced back, wondering if he'd missed something, but they were already gone.  When he returned his attention to his father, Genma had already stepped ahead to stand by his wife; following his lead, Ranma joined Akane, and wondered why he suddenly felt the need to be protective.

            "So, what do you think?" asked his fiancee, as she curiously examined the room, looking in from the doorway.

            "Un."

            "Ranma?"

            "Yes?"

            "So?"

            "Un."

            She nudged him hard with an elbow to the side. 

            "Hey!  What was that for?"

            "Pay attention.  This might be your home in a few months."

            "Yeah, yeah," he muttered.  He wondered if she had even noticed that a potentially very dangerous martial artist had just passed by.  He would have to remember to ask her next time he went over to her house to train with her, and berated himself for not having considered her skills in that area previously.  With these things on his mind, he slid forward to peek into the room.  Nothing special, really, a little on the small side, compared to what he had grown used to at the Tendos', with a single bed, a small desk, a closet, and a tall bookshelf.  He wouldn't be practising any moving katas in there, that was certain.

            "This is a single.  We also have doubles, of course, for requested roommates and married couples."

            He didn't fail to notice the exchanged glances between mother and father, before Nodoka turned to the guide. "We'd like to see one of those, please," she said.

            Ranma turned to Akane and met her enigmatic look.  Was she going to protest, he wondered, or should he?  He wished she'd make it clear whether she wanted him to or not.  Lately, he had found her to be impossible to understand -- even more so than before -- although perhaps that wasn't entirely surprising, considering where they now were.

            This wasn't the first they'd heard of joint rooms, of course: how many hare-brained plans had passed back and forth since learning that he'd been accepted to university?  From renting an apartment together (too expensive) to living together as roommates in an all-girl dorm (Ranma's reaction to that had been rather vehement), he had pretty much expected another attempt at the idea during this visit.

            "Mom," he started, a touch of impatience in his voice, when a sudden shifting in his pack pulled him off balance.  He stumbled against the wall.  Stupid thing, he thought, dropping the bag to the floor.  What the hell was in there, anyway?  He didn't remember packing anything that heavy.  He loosened the ties.  The top dropped open.  A cold spray of water jetted out and caught him square in the face.

            "Heya, Sonny-boy!" said the withered old man squatting within.  "So this is higher education, eh?  Sweeto!"

            Tada Hiroshi was a very patient man, which was why he was so good at giving guided tours of the university's residences.  He didn't mind fielding dozens of questions, all of them minor variations on a single theme or two.  He didn't even mind standing aside as the family discussed among themselves whatever new problem had arisen due to his latest demonstration of university policy.  It was a job, it paid decently, it was easy, and most importantly, usually relatively stress-free.  Hiroshi knew a thing or two about stress.  He was finishing a double degree in psychology and literature.  He had a girlfriend who felt neglected, and a barely-started paper in cognitive studies due next week.  Nearly a thousand pages of reading to get through by month's end -- and that wasn't counting the psychology texts.  He maintained a relaxed attitude, steadfastly believed that, like every other year, he'd somehow make it through in the end, and ultimately simply grinned and bore it.  But, that being said, the last thing he needed was more stress.

            He felt the mother of all headaches coming on.

            A short, curvy, red-headed girl, water dripping from the tip of her pigtail, faced off against an impossibly short, withered-looking old man.  He didn't remember bringing either of them up here.  And they were yelling.  Loudly.  In a matter of seconds, students would be poking their heads out of their rooms and demanding to know what all the noise was about.  Who would be the first person they demanded an explanation from? he asked no one in particular, and whimpered.

            "Um, listen, could you keep. . . ," he tried, but was ignored.

            "You freak! _Now_ you show up?" yelled the girl.

            "Ah, Ranma m'boy, how good to see you again."

            "But - but, Master, what are you doing here?"  This from the larger, older man.

            "Genma, I'm really disappointed in you," answered the old man referred to as 'Master', turning strangely luminous eyes upon his balding pupil.  "Heading off to a place like this, and not even inviting me along."

            "Never took you for the studious type," muttered the pigtailed girl.

            "Study?  Who said anything about studying?  I've just grown tired of those high school types.  Ah, but university!  The fountain of knowledge to which youth comes to drink -- to venture tentatively into the shallow waters of experimentation -- from which girls learn to wear racy lingerie!  Would you deny me a maturing of my tastes?"

            "I shoulda known," answered the girl.  "You pervert.  If your tastes were any more mature, they'd need embalming!  Well, I'm not gonna let you stink up my future home, you shitty old man!"

            "Ranma, no!" interrupted the other young girl.  "You'll wreck the place!"

            "Nah," said Ranma.  "It's only Happosai.  I'll be careful.  Besides," she added, cracking her knuckles, "I still haven't properly paid him back for ruining our wedding -- and drinking my Nannichuan!"  Her eyes narrowed dangerously and she stepped forward into what looked like a fighting stance.  "You're going to pay for that, Freak."

            "Your time in China's made you uppity, boy," growled Happosai.  "I'm still the Master here, and it's high time you re-learnt your place!"

            Unsurprisingly, every door along the hallway popped open.  Loud voices rose in complaint, demanded to know what was going on, said they were trying to study, began a philosophical treatise on the nature of violence.  As Hiroshi backed away from his guests, head throbbing painfully, he was assaulted by angry demands to control his group.  He whimpered again.

            "Um, people. . . ?"

            The big, bald man picked him up, threw him over a shoulder, and said, "I don't think you want to hang around for this," before carrying him away into the stairwell.

He couldn't help the feral grin creeping across his face.  Staring down at Happosai, ready and waiting for the first attack, prepared to receive and deliver serious pain -- all he felt was anticipatory pleasure.  He abstractly noted his father pulling his mother and various students away, heard Akane warning him against violence.  Ranma ignored her.  He'd put Happosai down, for good this time, without damage to. . . .

            Quick arc through the air before slamming into the floor, sliding its entire length before colliding with the wall at the end of the hallway.  Embarrassing position, upside down, legs sprawled, rolls of carpet gathered against his back where he'd torn it up during his tumble.  Damn, but he'd forgotten how fast the little creep could be.

            "Heh heh," chuckled said old man, idly emptying his pipe with a swift tap against the wall.  "Slow as ever."

            "You!" he muttered, regaining his feet.  "Look what you did to the floor!"

            Eyes glistening with puerile innocence, Happosai said, "But it was your ass that ripped it up, Ranma!"  And then, swapping innocence for lecherousness, he added, "Which reminds me, it's been far too long since I've copped a decent feel of that nice, ripe butt of yours."

            "Die, Freak!" he yelled, springing forward.  He slammed his fist down where the short man was, connected with nothing but air.  Leaning back he avoided a counter, twisted as he rose, leg lashing out, again hitting nothing.  Happosai bounced off his outstretched foot and leapt for the face, encountered an elbow for his trouble, ricocheted off the ground, a wall, clipped him in the shoulder.  Ranma spun with the impact and nailed the old man with a savage backhand as he sailed past.  With a squeal he reversed trajectories and punctured a hole in the wall.

            "You little punk!" echoed a voice from somewhere behind drywall.  "I'll. . . uh. . . damn, I'm stuck!"

            "Not for long," said Ranma, smiling, lunging for the hole and grabbing his prey.  A second later he slammed back against the concrete stairwell wall behind him as the short-fused, tape-wrapped bomb he retrieved went off in his hand.  He slumped to the ground, charred and blackened.

            Happosai popped out of hiding, looking none the worse for wear.  "Hmph," he snorted, "I'm disappointed.  I expected better."

            "I'll show you something better," said Ranma, again climbing to his feet.

            "Really?  A little cleavage, maybe?"

            "Shut up!"  He leapt for his prey, who, with a disdainful shrug, turned away and sent a couple of Happodaikarin tumbling over his shoulder.  Shit, Ranma thought, the residence, it's gonna get ripped to shreds.  He's counting on me to absorb the blast and save this dive.  Unless. . . spotting his discarded pack crumpled against the wall, he snagged it with a well-timed grab as he rushed forward to meet the attack.  Bag open, swing forward, and scoop, one, two, all three bombs, into his pack -- and finish by slamming it down over the old man's head.

            "Who turned out the lights?" Happosai asked, before the thunderous detonation silenced him.

            The explosion blasted Ranma upwards and away, still clutching the pack in his flailing grasp.  He felt a jarring impact as he first smashed into the concrete ceiling (leaving a nice impact crater), then rebounded and tumbled wildly down the hallway, before finally crashing though an inner wall.  Everything went momentarily black.

            "Hey. . . hey, you alright?" a voice asked him through a haze.  A sudden, sharp poke at his breast snapped him back to awareness.  He sat up with a start, and groaned as many very bruised muscles immediately signalled their displeasure.  Rubbing his head revealed a very nasty bump, and it took a few moments for the bleariness in his eyes to clear.  A frail, pale-faced man was squatting next to him, holding an odd-looking stick.  He looked somewhat like a taller, older Gosunkugi.  "Wha - what's going on?"

            Ranma grunted as he stood.  "Have I been out long?"

            "A few seconds."  The man ran trembling fingers through slick, dishevelled hair.  "Um, you, ah, well, you kinda fell through my. . . wall."  He pointed at a big hole next to the door of his room.  "You sure you're okay?"

            "Yeah."  He glanced through the body-shaped breach, saw the curious faces peeking in.  "Sorry 'bout the hole."  He shrugged apologetically.  "Um, I've gotta go finish something off, okay?  I dunno, I'll come back later to help clean up, or something."

            "Don't bother," the man said, and thin, bloodless lips curled back from stained teeth in a parody of a grin.  "I won't be here."

            "Oh," answered Ranma, turning away, thinking, Weirdo.

            "Don't forget your bag."

            "Thanks."

            A few minutes later, he caught up with a woozily stumbling Happosai, who was drifting into walls.  He was soot-darkened and looking very much frayed around the edges.

            "I don't feel so good," mumbled the old man.

            "Maybe you need a breath of fresh air," Ranma suggested, and promptly booted him out the window.  The seventeenth floor made a very nice vantage point from which to watch his flight path.  Once out of sight, he shrugged, turned away, and went off in search of his parents.  Smiling broadly, revelling in his aching muscles and throbbing head, he decided that maybe university wasn't such a bad place after all.

            "I can't believe you blew up the student housing."

            "I didn't blow it up!  There were only a few holes!"

            "I told you not to fight, but did you listen?"

            "It was Happosai's fault!"

            "You couldn't just leave it alone, could you?"

            "What, I shoulda just let the freak run off and molest the whole campus?"

            "You didn't need to fight him, you could have distracted him."

            "Oh, sure, next time I'll just pop my shirt open and give him a free fondle -- is that what you want? -- you call _me_ pervert?"

            "Just forget it," said Akane, and turned away.  He just stared at her back, an angry retort dying on his lips, before releasing an inarticulate exclamation of frustration and returning his stare to the window.  He watched the darkness, punctured by innumerable cityscape lights, fly by as the bullet train made its way back towards Nerima.  What a great end, he thought, to a wonderful day.  His expression, reflected in the the night-opaque window, surprised even himself.

            There was little else to say, either to Akane or his parents.  He suspected his mother and father had been arguing as well, albeit quietly, for his mother seemed in her own way to be rather vexed with Genma.  He decided that if he was the source of much of the tension between his parents, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing for him to leave.  Perhaps their relationship could then improve.  Thinking of the talk in the stairwell, Ranma certainly hoped so.

            With nothing to do and hours yet to go before arrival, he decided he might as well emulate Akane and get a little studying done, and reached for his poor, battered carrying bag.  Noting the burn stains, many holes, and general tattered appearance, he suddenly had an ill feeling regarding the likely condition of his homework.  His travel-blanket.  His wallet.  He opened his pack and upended it.  A rain of fine, greyish powder formed a largish pile on the train's carpet.  Ranma sighed.  So much for that idea.  He gave the bag a solid shake and, much to his surprise, an unfamiliar book fell free and landed with a thud on the ground.  That's not one of my textbooks, he thought, and picked it up.

            The book was large, encyclopaedia-sized and heavy, with a thick, burgundy leather binding.  A small latch, pitted and made of iron, perhaps, ugly against the rich colouring of the material, kept the broad volume squeezed shut.  Some writing, small and fine and done in gold lettering, adorned the spine, but the characters were unknown to him.  Otherwise, the book seemed rather ordinary; and yet as his hand passed along the covering, traced a number of hairline cracks and crinkles in the leather, it seemed to radiate great ancientness.  Strange, he thought, I wonder where it came from?

            "What's that?" interrupted a voice, and an inquisitive Akane looked over his shoulder.

            "A book," he shrugged.  "I just found it in my bag."

            "I can see that.  How did it get in there?"

            "Beats me."

            "Maybe Happosai dropped it?"

            "Before or after he blew up?  Nah, I doubt it; before and it'd be dust on the ground, and I don't think he had time while exploding."

            "Well, where did it come from, then?"

            "Dunno."  He thought about it: the moments immediately after catching Happosai in the bag, aside from the explosion itself, weren't terribly clear.  "Wait a sec'," he said, snapping his finger.  "Yeah, I got it!  It musta been that dork back on campus!"

            "Dork?"

            "After the explosion. . . ," he started, and explained how the man had handed over the bag before Ranma left.  "I was kinda busy at the time, but thinking back, there was something odd about the guy.  He was dressed all in black, and acted all nervous and creepy-like, and. . . hey, that's right, the pervert even poked my boob with a stick to wake me up!"

            Akane giggled.  

            "It's not funny!"

            "Of course not," she said, and composed herself.

            "Hmph.  Well.  Anyway, I think he must've been some kinda freak.  Books all over the place, weird posters. . . see, that's what happens when you study too hard!"

            "Like you'd know," she said, grinning, and eased in.  "So what's the book about?"

            "How should I know?  Let's take a look."

            With the book sitting in his lap, she needed to lean in to get a proper view, and Ranma was suddenly acutely aware of her closeness, of the contact as she supported herself against his shoulder, of the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips. . . .

            "So, open the book already!"

            "Um, uh. . . yeah."  He reached for the latch, and was surprised to find it locked shut.  "It's locked.  Must be a trick catch or somethin'," he said, but he found nothing as he felt around the latch.  It was a smooth circle of greyish iron set into the leather, with a single metal strap reaching over to the other cover, and he saw no obvious way of making it release.  "I don't even see a keyhole or nothin'!"  He shrugged.  "Well, guess I can just snap it off. . . ."

            "No, wait, let me have a look," insisted Akane, reaching in.

            "Aw, c'mon, you're not gonna find-," he started to say, but the moment her finger came in contact with the lock it made a 'snuck' sound, and the latch released.  Startled, she drew her fingers back, and Ranma, still feeling for a way to loosen the ties, quickly pulled his hand away as well.  They looked at each other, eyes wide, then stared back at the book.  It sat there innocently, looking like nothing more than a big red book.

            "That was odd," said Ranma.

            "It unlocked when we both touched it," said Akane.

            That hadn't occurred to him.  "You think?"

            "What else could it be?"  She hesitated, and when she spoke again Ranma could detect a faint undercurrent of nervousness.  "Maybe. . . maybe the book's magical or something; maybe it's cursed!"

            Ranma snorted.  "A magic book?  C'mon, who's ever heard of a magic book?"

            Akane gave him the arched eyebrow.  "Magic springs, rings, pills. . ."

            "Yeah, yeah."

            ". . . mirrors, compacts, dogi. . ."

            "I get the point."

            ". . . glasses, lockets, fishing rods. . . ."

            "Ah, yes, perhaps," interrupted Ranma, looking wise, "but no books!"

            "Baka."

            "Oh, c'mon, it's just sitting there!  How can a book possibly be dangerous?"

            "You're kidding, right?"

            "Well, fine then, you don't want me to open it?"

            "I didn't say _that_!  Just. . . be careful."

            "Yeah, whatever," Ranma said, and reached for the book.  He actually did feel a moment's hesitation, berated himself for allowing his fiancee's silly superstitions to get to him, lifted the latch away (it opened without resistance), and slid his fingers beneath the edge of the top cover.

            "Careful," whispered Akane, voice belied by her wide grin and curious eyes.

            "Weirdo," he replied, and opened the book.

            The old leather creaked as he turned the cover over, and particles of dust puffed out of numerous cracks lining the spine and inside of the volume.  A slightly unpleasant and strangely animal scent escaped.  At first look he could tell the book, despite its size, had relatively few pages: each leaf appeared to be thick and primitive, in marked contrast with the exterior lining.  They certainly weren't made of paper as he knew it, and he suspected some kind of rough animal hide.  Although crude, the pages were nevertheless sturdy, and despite an ominous crackling as he turned the first page, he suspected his delicate handling was unnecessary.  Unfortunately, once he saw the actual text, he couldn't understand any of it.  The writing seemed either a meaningless jumble of scribbling in different handwritings, or a chaotic mix of half-recognizable characters and strange alphabets.  Occasionally, drawn images, some hardly more than sketches, others remarkably detailed, would be interspersed among the writing, but even these made little sense to him.

            "I dunno about you," he said, after staring at the page before him for several minutes in deep thought, "but I can't make heads or tales of this!"  He grinned and looked inordinately proud of himself.

            "Shut up, you," she said, exaggeratedly disgusted, then a moment later she abandoned her own seat to slide in next to him.  "This is cool!"

            Ranma found it difficult to focus on the book, suddenly painfully aware of her body pressed next to his.  He could smell the freshness of her hair, and what musty old thing could compare with that?

            "I think this is English," Akane was saying, drawing his attention back to the page.  "But I can't read any of it, maybe it's really old.  And. . . oh, look at this, this is Japanese!  Really old, though."  She pointed out a double-row of characters lining one edge of the page.  "And these," she added, tracing the second line of kanji, "I think are old Chinese."

            "Hey, I think I recognize some of these," he said, surprised.  "They look familiar."

            "You know Chinese?" she asked, dubiously.

            "Ancient Chinese technique scroll Pop picked up at an antique store while we were travelling," he said, nodding towards the slumbering form of his father.  "He insisted I figure it out and stole me a dictionary.  Turned out to be an old recipe for dim sum, but I picked up some old characters in the process."

            "Well, what does it say, then?"

            "Um," he answered.  He thought as hard as he could, cast his mind back, tried to summon up the image of himself, younger and in China, poring over a crumbly old scroll written in a language he barely understood; he even tried to bring up the memory of the food he'd prepared afterwards, recalled the recipe, created a mental image of the dictionary.  "Er. . . ."

            "Is something burning?"

            "Shut up."  He turned to the lines of text, focussed on them so hard the characters almost seemed to swim before his eyes, little lines and dashes and squiggles crawling across the page.  "It means. . . ah. . . ."

            "Oh, give it up, let me have a try at the Japanese."

            "No!" he said, voice unexpectedly sharp.  "I'm not finished."  He jabbed at the first kanji and slowly traced his finger down the page along the sentence.  "This. . . this is. . . Aha!  It's-"

            "It's. . . ?"

            "It's _not_ an ancient recipe for dim sum!" he declared, smiling broadly.

            "Moron," Akane muttered, and swiped the book from him, ignoring his exclamation of protest.  She flipped forward through a couple of pages, one finger keeping their earlier place.  "Wow, just look at all this stuff," she said, although with the book in her lap and slightly tilted away, Ranma found he couldn't see much of anything.  "These drawings just get weirder and weirder."  She turned another page, and her eyes widened.  "What the. . . ?"  Her voice trailed off as she scanned the new page with sudden intensity.

            "Akane?" he asked.

            Before she could respond, a soft voice intruded.  "May I have a look?"

            Ranma looked up, surprised.  His mother leaned forward from her seat across from them, and behind her politeness she seemed genuinely curious.  He wondered, suddenly inexplicably nervous, how long she had been watching and listening to them.  He glanced at Akane, who was still staring intently into the book, shrugged, and returned to his mother.  "Yeah, sure, Mom," he answered.  He nudged Akane, and his fiancee, startled, looked up, blinking rapidly.  She flipped back to the first page and turned the book toward Nodoka.  "But I don't think you'll be able to. . . ," Ranma started to say.

            "He first created man," Nodoka read, eyes narrowed in concentration but finger smoothly tracing down the lines of Japanese text.  "He first created man, and a noble race, the angel princes, which later perished utterly.  For, it seemed to them in their hearts it well might be that they themselves were lords of heaven, princes of glory."

            She looked up and smiled happily at them.  "Well, I think that's what it says, near as I can tell.  I haven't tried reading old kanji in quite some time, I'm afraid.  My, that certainly was strange, wasn't it?"

            Ranma boggled at his mother for a few seconds before recovering.  "You can read that stuff?"

            "Well, I've tried to keep myself busy over the last ten years, Ranma.  I've read a lot and studied all kinds of subjects -- there wasn't much else to do with you gone for so long."

            "Oh.  Yeah, I guess not."

            "There were always classes available at the community centre, or I'd have a tutor teach me at home.  It was a bit expensive at times, but it helped me keep my mind off of-."

            "That was really cool, Auntie Saotome," interrupted Akane, a little too enthusiastically.  She jabbed her finger at the section of Chinese text.  "Can you read this, too?"

            Nodoka glanced down at the book.  "Well, I didn't study much Chinese," she said hesitantly.

            "It's not a recipe, if that helps any," Ranma offered.

            "But, wait," Nodoka said, looking up and eyes wide.  She turned the book back towards her son.  "Isn't this. . . ?"

            Ranma looked at where his mother was pointing.  He recognized a string of characters that spelled a place-name he could never forget for as long as he lived.  Looking up he met the surprised expressions of both his mother and Akane.

            "Jusenkyo. . . ?"

            Sitting at the breakfast table with Akane opposite him, an almost forgotten sense of burgeoning excitement fluttering within, brought back fond memories of living with the Tendos.  In the last few months, so few days had begun without him knowing precisely what would happen.  Now, unexpected possibilities abounded, represented by the book in his (somewhat repaired) bookbag held closely at his side, and his heart thrilled at the potential.

            Aside for the single obscure reference to Jusenkyo, little else had been discovered from the tome during the rest of the trip home the night before.  His mother hesitantly suggested that it made reference to curses, and several types of animals, often in conjunction with people, but she had repeated quite often that her Chinese was very limited.  Ranma didn't care.  The book wasn't leaving his sight until it had revealed its secrets to him, and the first step towards that, he decided, was a quick visit this morning to Furinkan.  Classes may have been technically over for the third-graders, but the teachers were still available for help, and hopefully someone there could help him decipher the book.

            "Well, you're sure in a good mood this morning," said Akane.

            "I guess so."  He patted the bag propped up against the table leg.  "It's this thing.  I mean, who knows what it really is, or why that guy put it in there -- but, if Mom's right, this might be another chance at a-."

            "Don't say it!"

            "Cure," he finished, then looked at her quizzically.  "Why not?"

            "A cure, Ranma?" she said, half-exasperated.  "How many times have you tried?  I just don't want you to get your hopes up, or to jinx yourself."

            "Oh, c'mon, it's not like I'm gonna get myself killed, or end up with another fiancee, or make some kinda new enemy who can flatten the city, or something."

            She looked dubious.

            He shrugged.  "Can't hurt to check, can it?"

            Her expression didn't change.

            "Besides," he said, pointedly ignoring her, "that's only half the reason.  Truth is, I'm pretty okay with the whole curse thing now.  But aren't you the least bit curious about this?  I mean, why'd that guy put it in there?"

            "Maybe it was an accident, maybe it fell in."

            Now it was his turn to look dubious.  "Doubt it.  Either way, I wanna know what this book's about, and what it's got to say about Jusenkyo."

            As they continued eating the conversation turned to more mundane things.  He found he enjoyed having the company.  Normally, at breakfast, his mother was busy in the kitchen, and his father had already long since departed for work.  Of course, as much as he appreciated the company, it did not stop him from quickly noticing what topic did not arise as they spoke: university.  Oh, sure, a few references to yesterday, but never did she mention the _other_ university that had accepted her.  Somehow, though, today it all seemed rather irrelevant.

            "Oh, Ranma, could you come see me in the kitchen, please?"  His mother's voice interrupted his musing.

            He joined her in the kitchen, where she was washing dishes.  "Yeah, Mom?"

            She smiled at him.  "I was just wondering what you were planning to do today."

            "Dunno," he answered.  "Swing by my old high school and see if anyone there can help with translating that book.  Or tell me who can.  Study a bit, of course.  Maybe get some training in after that."

            Nodoka nodded.  "That's nice, dear.  Did you sneak into Akane's room last night?"

            Yesterday's visit had originally been intended as an overnight trip, but the damages to the university had awakened old reflexes in Genma, and he had strongly suggested they make an earlier return ('run for our lives,' was how he put it).  Having arrived quite late, Akane had spent the night sleeping in his room, while he slept on the tatami floor of the living room.

            "What?  No!  I'm not some kinda. . . ."

            "That's too bad.  I'm sure she would have enjoyed the company."

            "Enjoyed?" he sputtered.  "She would've killed me!"

            "Yes, but she would have enjoyed herself doing so," answered his mother, smiling knowingly.  "The best way to a woman's heart, Ranma, is to make her happy."

            Ranma sighed.  "Yes, Mom."

            "Now why don't you bring her some more tea."

            He returned to the table just as Akane was sitting down.  She appeared a little flushed.

            "Akane?"

            "Just returning from the lady's room," she said, somewhat quickly.  "What did your mom want?  Is everything okay?  Any problems?  What's up?"

            "Um, nothing.  Everything's fine," he said.  He placed the fresh pot of tea down.  "She just wanted to know what I was up to today.  Which reminds me," he added, sitting down himself, "you coming with me to Furinkan?"

            "No, sorry.  I. . . promised Kasumi I'd help her around the house a little today.  And I don't have any questions for the teachers, so I'll just study at home today.  Besides, I also really need a change of clothing."

            He shrugged.  "I dunno, you look fine to me," he said.

            "You really -are- in a good mood today," she said wryly.

            "If it's clean underwear you need, I'm sure I've got some you could borrow."

            "You know, coming from any other guy, that would sound either really weird or really perverted."

            "Might be a bit loose around the chest, though," he added, grinning.

            "My hands around your throat won't be," she said, smiling sweetly.

            "So you can't come?"

            She shook her head.  "In fact," she added, standing up.  "I really should be going."  She grabbed her bulging overnight bag.  "Maybe see you later for some training?"

            Ranma nodded and watched her leave.

            He walked the familiar path between his house and Furinkan, smiling broadly and feeling content.  An impromptu decision had led him to wear the proper school uniform for once: perhaps because of the cool late-February weather, or simply because no one ever expected him to do so.  Bag slung over one shoulder and held protectively, collar undone, walking with long, confident strides, Ranma expected that the day could only get better.

            Once his path met the old route he used to take between the Tendos' and school, he hopped up onto the fence to continue on his way.  He drew a few surprised glances from earth-bound students: not because of his fence-walking, he suspected, but because he was actually heading to school.  Aside for club activities (which, truth be told, he missed rather frequently as well) he simply wasn't a common figure at Furinkan these days.  Like the rest of the third-graders, he was supposed to be studying at home, preparing for the entrance exams; unlike most of those, however, he rarely bothered to come in to ask his teachers for help or explanations.

            He ignored the stares of his fellow students and basked in their confusion.  Even the simple act of walking to school like this reminded him of earlier, more exciting times -- all that was missing was Akane at his side, and a certain kendoist waiting for him at the front gate.  He smiled as he passed familiar sights: the old lady, still ladling water after all these years; Tofu's clinic, closed during his training sabbatical but recently reopened; the canal in which he'd inadvertently bathed far too often.  Lost in reminiscence, he indulged in a few playful hops and twirls as he made his way toward school.  He arrived at Furinkan earlier than he ever had when he used to attend school every day, and almost surprised to find himself at his destination, he shook free of pleasant memories and sauntered up to the entrance.

            "Well, Mr. Saotome, how good to see you," greeted Mr. Maeda, his science teacher, standing at the front gate.  His voice dripped sarcasm but behind the exaggerated surprise lurked honest friendliness.  "My, and in uniform, to boot!  Didn't think I'd ever live to see the day."

            Passing through, he met and greeted students and friends and acquaintances, nodded and waved as he caught their eye:

            "O-ha, Ranma!  Wazzup?"  

            "Same old, same old: studying and ass-kicking."

            "Sa-o-to-me!  See you in club tonight?"

            "Heh, maybe.  Lookin' a little soft there, Baba."

            "Shit, man, in uniform?  Damn, guess no point in soaking you, eh?"

            "Wouldn't be much point outta uniform either, Daisuke."

            "Long time no see!"

             He suspected that maybe he should not have turned his back on school so completely.  He missed this, the casual friendship and social atmosphere that school brought.  Maybe I ought to swing by more often, Ranma thought.

            "Ranma, wait!" called out a voice.

            He turned and saw Hiroshi.  He smiled and beckoned him over.

            "Hey, man," he said, once his friend was close enough.  "What's up?"

            "Same as everyone else," Hiroshi answered, grinning.  "Studying my ass off, now that I know what I've got a chance at.  You?"

            "Yeah, pretty much.  My parents took me and Akane to check out the university I've got the best shot at, last weekend.  Cool place, I guess."

            "Really," said Hiroshi, surprised.  "Akane too?  I heard she had a solid shot at Tokyo U, no?"

            Ranma's smile slipped a notch.  "She did.  Does."

            Obviously his friend picked up on the change in the conversation's tone.  "Ah, right.  Gotcha."  Hiroshi turned and nodded towards the school.  "So who're you here to see, then?  Problems with English again?"

            "Nah," Ranma answered, and patted the bag at his side.  "Found this old book yesterday, and it might have some hints about Jusenkyo in it - maybe even a cure.  Problem is, I can't actually read it, so I thought maybe somebody here. . . ."

            "Here?" said Hiroshi, sounding sceptical.  "At high school?  Dunno, man, seems unlikely.  Isn't that more up that old lady's alley -- what's her name -- Cologne, right?  Couldn't you ask her?"

            Ranma frowned.  "I'd rather not.  Me and the old hag aren't on the best of terms right now."

            "Ah."  A beat later, he added, "Well, gotta go.  Want to get to the teachers' lounge before the bell rings.  Later."

            Ranma nodded, and smiled, and watched his friend go, suddenly preoccupied.  Why hadn't he thought of that right off?  Cologne probably would be the best person to see, as far as translating the book went.   He suspected he'd have to see her at some point, no matter what.  He loathed the very idea of turning to her for help.  Well, nothing I can do about it now, he told himself, and shrugging, went to follow his friend into the school.

            A sudden, unconscious sharpening of awareness forced hesitation; he swivelled back toward the front gate.  Two figures stood at the threshold of Furinkan, dark silhouettes against the sky.  Ranma blinked into the early morning sunlight as they slowly walked toward him.  There was no mistaking their intent nor their destination as they approached.  To his surprise he recognized them.

            "Hey, you're those guys from the university yesterday, aren't you?" Ranma called out.

            The younger of the two men nodded, and they both stopped at a distance.  Ranma eyed him critically, and didn't bother to conceal his appraising look.  His earlier glance had been mostly accurate: still wearing black jeans and travel-worn boots, though the muscle shirt had been swapped for a simple grey t-shirt, the man stood slightly taller than Ranma did and obviously outweighed him by a solid ten kilos or so.  A shock of blond hair, dark at the roots, spiked away from greenish-yellow eyes.  The young man's face was undeniably ugly, angular and big-jawed, shotgun-scattering of pockmarks and blackheads sprayed across his cheeks, the underlying skin unpleasantly pasty.  Ranma noted that he still favoured his left arm: he wore the same heavy leather jacket, but the left sleeve hung empty.  Arm broken? Ranma wondered, but he saw no sign of the bulk a cast would demand.

            "How did you find me?" Ranma asked.  He noted that he had been subject to the same examination.  Look all you want, buddy, he thought.  I ain't showing you nothin'.

            The man smirked and pulled a wallet from his pocket.  He snapped a card out; Ranma snagged it from the air and found his school id.  "Seems somebody dropped their wallet at the university."

            "And out of the kindness of your heart you came all this way to return it.  How sweet," Ranma said.  "Right.  What do you really want?" 

            It was the second man who answered, and Ranma noted him for the first time.  He remembered his father's warning and watched him attentively.

            "All we are interested in," the man said, voice low enough that Ranma had to strain to hear it, "is the book that was given to you yesterday afternoon by the man at the university.  Hand it over and we will be on our way.  You will be compensated for your troubles."

            The man was a foreigner but spoke in perfect, unaccented Japanese.  He appeared to be quite old, in his sixties at least, Ranma guessed, with shockingly white hair that peeked from beneath a battered wide-brimmed hat that sat precariously on his head.  Startlingly blue, clear eyes peered from behind thin, black-rimmed spectacles, set amidst a face of lean, sharp features.  He was tall, nearly two metres, but Ranma suspected he was rail thin beneath the old-fashioned beige suit.  Bloodless lips settled in a thin line that turned down at the edges, in what appeared a look of perpetual mild displeasure.  Try as he might, Ranma could not see what had nettled his father so.  This man's not a threat, he thought, he's just some old man!  Pop's just playin' with my mind or something.

            "Zara's talkin' to you, kid," said the younger man, voice sharp, condescending.  "Pay attention!"

            Ranma turned his attention back to the greater of the two threats -- and there was no denying that the man opposing him was taking on an aggressive pose.  "Sorry, bud, but the book's staying with me," he said, and patted the bag at his side.  "I've got uses for this thing.  Can't give it back just yet."

            "We're not asking," said the younger man.  "We're telling.."

            He took a step forward, and Ranma mirrored him, shifting his weight back and readying himself.  The younger man stopped, though, at a touch from the older one named Zara.

            "I assure you, that book contains nothing you have need of."  His words remained as soft as before, but now somehow carried clearly across the distance.  Monotone as it was, Ranma still found the man's words strangely compelling, sonorous undercurrent captivating and suggestive of great import.  "It is a dangerous and deceptive text.  It contains nothing but lies, no matter what you believe you may have found within.  You would be far better off simply handing it over.  I assure you that I can reimburse you generously for your efforts."

            Zara's words seemed reasonable, and Ranma found his hand half-way to unbuckling his bookbag before he caught himself.  What the hell was he doing?  His eyes narrowed as he suspected some trick.

            "Thanks, old man," he said, "but no thanks.  The book's mine.  I'm keeping it.  You want it, you come get it."  Ranma was surprised at how hostile his own voice suddenly sounded.

            The man's response was to slightly cock one eyebrow; Ranma realized it was the first expression he had yet seen cross the otherwise impassive face.  "Very well."  Zara nodded toward his companion.  "Go get me that book, then."

            "Excellent," the young man answered, and smiled viciously.  "I was hoping for a decent fight.  That geek back at the dorm wasn't no fun at all."

            "I promised you your fill of challenges, and you shall have them.  But for now, time is of the essence.  Finish him quickly and retrieve my book.  Understood?"  The younger man nodded and resumed his advance, and the man added, "Be careful, this boy is surprisingly strong-willed."

            Ranma watched and listened to the exchange as he unbuttoned his tunic.  Now he wished he'd worn his normal clothing, not that it made any real difference; he just hated to get his school uniform dirty, the thing was so damned expensive.  A smile crept across his face as his opponent slowly moved closer.  A number of students drew near, forming a ring about the two fighters, leaving the old man named Zara at the edge.  Ranma could hear the cry going out, summoning more spectators, drawing the crowd, Nabiki's successors working the field; and his smile grew and his pulse pounded in response.  As the man drew closer, he could see the same smile and same appreciation mirrored on his face.

            He stopped several metres away.  "You sure you don't want to just hand the book over?  I'll have to brutally hurt you otherwise."

            "Well, since you put it -that- way, yeah, sure, here you go," answered Ranma.  "Not."

            "Good.  By the way, the name's Karadoku."

            "Saotome Ranma."

            "You any good?"

            Ranma smirked.  "The best."

            "The arrogant ones are always fun to take down."

            Ranma tossed his school tunic aside, next to his bookbag.  "It's not arrogance if you're as good as you think you are."

            "Hadn't realized," the man replied, and yanked off his leather jacket with one hand.  As it fell away, his second limb was revealed: thin, withered, and pale, his left arm hung limply from the shoulder, misshapen and strangely bulbous at the joints.  The flesh stretched tautly across sinew and muscle and met in the gaps between bone.  The hand was twisted and clawlike.  An audible gasp escaped as the crowd noticed the handicap, and Ranma fancied he could hear some of the betting odds shift.  "What are you staring at?" Karadoku demanded, eyes narrowing.

            "You're crippled!" Ranma exclaimed.

            His opponent scowled.  "And you put it so tactfully, too."

            Ranma shrugged.  "Sorry."

            "I'm not looking for your pity."

            "Good," answered Ranma.  "'Cus I ain't giving it.  You try and take my book, I'll still kick your ass across the schoolyard, one arm or not."

            "Glad to hear it.  Wouldn't want you to go easy on me.  That way you won't have any excuses after I beat the crap out of you."

            "With one hand tied behind your back?"

            The man smiled nastily.  "Oh, that's a good one.  I'll remember that.  While I'm smashing your head in."

            He drifted in, good arm held before him, palm open and facing upward, smooth circular stepping carrying him closer.  With dozens of friends and Furinkan students surrounding him, chanting his name, urging him on, Ranma Saotome stepped back into a fighting stance and raised his hands defensively.  His eyes shone eagerly, and his smile was that of a predator.

            Shori Ryu was a very patient young man, which is why he made an excellent team captain of Furinkan's kendo club.  He sat in contemplation, posture and position nearly identical to that of his predecessor, and thought of the past.

            Kuno Tatewaki was a brilliant man, he decided.  He was also, he ruefully admitted, a complete idiot and totally delusional -- but an absolute master of Kendo.  He still remembered the stories of how the Blue Thunder (then the Steel Zephyr) had assumed the role of team captain of the club, a mere two weeks into his first year.  The first step had been effortlessly defeating the current captain; then, the entire team (at once); and once the club's teacher still resisted the idea of placing an arrogant, ignorant first year in charge, Kuno had offered up a challenge: "I shall challenge the entire student body," Kuno had supposedly said, glowering darkly at the oppressive educator, "and should they fail to lay me low, I shall take on the mantle of team captain.  Should I fail. . . the untold depths of the Kuno fortune shall be applied to the betterment of this fine educational institution -- and of the individual who succeeds in overcoming me."

            What a battle that had been, one inscribed in the illustrious annals of Furinkan history!  Legend had it that, over the course of an hour, Tatewaki Kuno defeated every one of his many challengers, before finally meeting the teacher himself in one-on-one combat.  After his inevitable victory, there had been no denying his right to leadership.  And thus the Kendo club had entered its very own Golden Age.

            The only problem being, Ryu thought, that gold is soft -- like Kuno's head.  There wasn't a school competition that they couldn't win -- if they were actually able to compete.  Too often, the club was used for the captain's own loony objectives.  Demanding and exacting in training, absolutely insane in application: that had been Tatewaki's method.  Such as when Tatewaki had taken him aside that one day, the first indication that he was being groomed as a potential successor; on that day. . . .

            "Captain!"  An urgent voice interrupted his revery.  "There's gonna be a fight!  Saotome's back, and some stranger challenged him!"

            Ryu nodded.  "Very well.  Go and watch.  I will be out momentarily."

            He rose from his seat, still reflecting on what had been.  Saotome: Kuno's nemesis, and undeniable better in combat; unfortunate that his former captain had never quite realized that.  Nevertheless, there had also been no denying the unbelievable achievements the kendoist had realized through association with his pigtailed foe.  The speed and skill and (especially) endurance he exhibited by the end of his third year!  Ryu could only dream of such ability.

            As he stepped from the dojo, Ryu could see the gathered crowd, hear the raised voices.  How long has it been, Ryu mused, since the last fight?  Months?  No wonder things had seemed so quiet around here recently.  He could never shake the feeling that he had started school at Furinkan just as a very special age was coming to an end.  Now, in his second year, and first as team captain, heir to Kuno's legacy, he lived with the oppressive knowledge that he could never bring his friends and club to such illustrious heights as his predecessor had.

            "Over here, captain!"  Ueda, his second, beckoned him over.  "Great view!"

            Saotome squared off against his opponent.  They circled each other warily, throwing out easy attacks meant to probe the other's defences.  Words were exchanged, though Ryu could not quite make them out.  He inched closer.

            "Let's see what you've got, high school boy."

            "Well, I've got two arms," Ranma said.  He tried a quick jab; it was lazily slapped aside.  "More than you can say."

            "Funny," grunted the man.  He darted in with a straight punch; danced back as Ranma leaned aside and countered with a snap kick.

            "Who's the guy?" Ryu asked his friend.  "What does he want?"

            "His name's Karadoku, I think.  He showed up a few minutes ago, with that old guy over there."  Ueda pointed at an old man, standing impassively at the opposite end of the circle.  "They want some book Ranma's supposed to have, or something.  Dunno.  Who cares?  It's a fight, man. . . it's been too long!"

            Ryu nodded absently.  He watched the fighters intently.  It seemed the playful testing was over.

            Karadoku, in mid-hop back, suddenly blurred forward, stunningly quick.  A foot lashed out; Ranma twisted aside, barely caught the elbow with his forearm as his foe passed by; snapped his hand down on the limb and went for a side-thrust to the ribs.  Karadoku's arm slid free and forced the kick aside as he stepped back.  Ranma leapt forward with a cry, perfect jumping circular kick forcing his opponent back, rising as he landed with a savage uppercut.  Again the stranger stepped back, blocking with his one arm.

            "Shit," said Ueda, breathless.  "They're so fast!"

            And good, Ryu wordlessly added.  No wonder Kuno always lost.  He watched as more blows were exchanged: no hits were landed, but the newcomer was being constantly forced back, his single arm a big disadvantage.  His style had obviously compensated, absorbing many attacks with his legs: but the missing arm remained a hole through which a smart attacker could slip a blow.  It was a hole, Ryu suddenly realized, that Saotome wasn't taking advantage of.

            Ranma threw out a flurry of attacks; Karadoku turned and twisted and absorbed a number of hits with his shins and single arm, the crippled limb twitching uselessly as he avoided the barrage of strikes.  His counters were amazingly fast, on par with Saotome even, but he managed far fewer attacks.

            Then Ranma wove in between a punch and kick, trapped and pulled aside the single good limb, hands slapping down the defensive knee; and suddenly snapping in, double palm-strike smashing into Karadoku's abdomen.  He went flying with a cry, hit the ground hard.  He rolled with the impact and half-rose, crouching on one knee.  Seen through the rising dust left in his sliding wake, his face twisted with anger before settling into hard determination.

            So fast! Ryu thought in wonder, Saotome's move, hands an impossible blur as they seemed to block and trap and pull and strike all at once.  Who among this crowd were even able to see the technique applied?  Without Kuno's training, he thought, no doubt I would've missed it as well.  Seen or not, there was no mistaking the result.

            "I think he's angry," Ueda said, pointing as Karadoku rose to his feet.  The fighter dusted himself off, seeming indifferent to Ranma, who danced from one foot to the next at the opposite end of the ring of students.

            "Nice hit," Karadoku called out.

            "I know."

            With a loud yell, the taller man charged forward.  Ranma mirrored him, racing across the field to meet him.  They both suddenly jumped, their cries echoing across the schoolyard; they engaged, high in the air; meaty thud of flesh against flesh; a sudden cry of surprise and pain; and they landed, metres apart, facing outward.  Karadoku smiled and wiped away a trickle of blood from the side of his mouth.  Ranma collapsed, face first, to the ground.

            "What?" exclaimed Ryu.

            Flight through the air, incoming opponent, riding the confidence of certain victory, the full range of attacks of the Anything Goes school's specialty flitting through his mind: Ranma's anticipatory grin faltered only slightly as he recognized the same look in his opponent's face as they met in the sky above Furinkan.  Uncoiling, spring-like tension released, success as first strike slipped past and fist connected with his opponent's face, head snapping back.  Other arm guarding against opposing arm, leg blocking leg: expected attacks countered, knocked aside, knee smashing into man's stomach, elbow crashing down against skull. . . and sudden, impossibly savage pain tearing momentarily across his chest, resounding throughout the entire left side of his body.

            The other arm, Ranma thought, the bastard tricked me!  Even as he fell, out of control, the pain faded into numbness, and he suddenly understood that Karadoku's crippled, withered arm was not only fully functional and blindingly fast, but deadly accurate as well.  He hit a pressure point, I can't feel my arm!

            He landed, awkwardly, before his left leg gave out as well, and he collapsed to the ground.  The numbness spread and consumed the left side of his body.  Ranma struggled to one knee and stared angrily at his opponent.  Karadoku turned, smiled, and slowly began walking towards him.

            "Give up?" he called out.

            "No.  Do you?" Ranma answered.  Get it together, he told himself.  It's only a setback, you're not losing to this jerk.  You're better than him, faster, stronger.  Get up, get up!

            He forced himself to stand, full weight on one leg.  His left arm hung limply.  His opponent's did not.  The twisted limb was now held forward, swivelling wrongly in the joint but obviously functional.  He glared at Karadoku as his enemy approached.  Ranma briefly considered retreating, at least until he regained control of his limbs: but even as the thought crossed his mind, he heard a cry taken up across the playing field, shouted out by the assembled students:

            "Ra-n-ma!  Ra-n-ma!  Ranma!"  The brief silence caused by his stumble shattered as he regained his footing, and their cry bolstered his determination.  He couldn't retreat, not now.  Focus on defence, he decided, until the limb unfreezes; dodge and block, read his intent, hold him at bay -- and when I've got my arm and leg back. . . .

            "Hate to disappoint a crowd," Karadoku said, pace unhurried and seeming undisturbed by the chanting, "but fun time's over."  He stopped and smiled.

            Ranma matched the grin with one just as frosty.  "Not yet it's not."

            Karadoku blurred forward, suddenly so much faster than before, crossing the distance in a heartbeat.  He attacked relentlessly, fist and bony claw and foot lashing out.  Ranma blocked furiously, single arm a blur, slapping strikes aside, guarding against the sharp, slashing crippled arm, absorbing blows he couldn't stop with his deadened side.  His unresponsive limb hindered him; he tried pulling back and stumbled as his leg failed; and suddenly he was falling, good leg hooked out from under him.  A heavy boot heel smashed into the small of his back like an axe.  Ranma gasped at the jarring impact, breath driven out as he crashed into the ground and bounced back up -- only to receive a savage elbow to the side of the head.  He went sprawling into the dirt, momentarily dizzy.

            Purely by instinct, Ranma swept out with his good leg and felt a solid impact.  Split second secured, he jackknifed his body away, avoided the foot that smashed down where his stomach had been; then, jerking forward, he threw his body into his enemy's legs.  The man stumbled, and with a yell Ranma slammed his good hand into the ground.  The ground shuddered as he pushed off, flying backward, landing several metres away in a half crouch; and even as he landed he pushed off with his good leg, flying back the way he came, arm cocked back for an all-or-nothing blow, breath heavy in his throat, knowing that fighting defensively simply wasn't going to work with one arm and one leg out of action, that he had to put Karadoku down -now-, before he recovered. . . .

            The first kick took him in the chin; the second in the stomach.  As the impact threw him up he felt a fist hammer down into his kidneys, and he dropped like a rock -- into the knee rising into his stomach.  Ranma felt the sharp, acrid taste of blood as he collapsed to the ground.

            Everything hurt.  The man was impossibly strong: maybe not a Ryoga, but close, and so much faster, almost as fast as him, even.  Ranma struggled through the pain, but the paralysed limbs still failed to respond.  The cheers stopped, ending as they watched him get helplessly battered; a few despairing, encouraging cries died in the resounding silence.  Ranma felt a single hand grab him by the neck in an iron grip and effortlessly haul him off the ground.

            "So," asked Karadoku, staring him straight in the eyes, smiling grimly, "who's the cripple now?"

            Ranma's feet dangled off the ground.  "Dirty. . . trick," he gasped.

            "And you fell for it."  He laughed.  "I didn't think you would.  You were smart.  You guarded against it.  At first.  But you didn't take advantage of it.  I left a hole there, and you didn't use it."

            "Not. . . honourable."

            "Stupid is what it is, you dumb shit.  And now look at you.  Beaten.  Arm and leg out."

            "The. . . arm. . . ," Ranma wheezed.

            "Yeah?"

            "Works fine!"  Feel through the pain, shatter the cold with rage.  Even as his enemy's eyes widened in surprise, the heir to the Saotome school of Indiscriminate Grappling slammed a fierce cross into Karadoku's head -- with the unguarded left arm.  Planted his right foot into the taller man's gut as he staggered, pushed off with all his strength, broke free of the grip, catapulted up -- slamming his heel into his opponent's chin, leg's dead weight dangerously heavy as Ranma cartwheeled overhead.  Even as he descended he twisted, good leg scything across, roundhouse connecting solidly against bone.  Ranma landed on the bad leg, collapsed, scrambled up again. . . .

            Into a downward punch that nailed him between the eyes, sending him sprawling.  Oh, man, Ranma thought woozily as a furious Karadoku, bleeding profusely from a broken nose, descended upon him.  This is gonna hurt. . . .

            It did.

            Ryu watched breathlessly from the sidelines, watched as Ranma made his final attempt, saw how Karadoku's head snapped back with the impact.  The larger man charged through the attack and smashed his fist into Ranma's head, then wailed away on his dazed, defenceless opponent.  Ranma absorbed the final blow of Karadoku's angry retaliation and collapsed to the ground like a rag doll.  The battle was over.  Ryu's own shock was mirrored in the face of the assembled students.  Saotome. . . lost?  But the stories, he thought, the fights I've seen with my own eyes: Furinkan's legend -never- lost!  Against his rival, the battle of chi-blasts; against the old man, fighting without strength; and rumours spoke of even greater accomplishments abroad: stunning victories, tarnished by this defeat? 

            No one moved as the old man named Zara left the crowd to join his fighter, the students' incessant whispering a sibilant testimony to their surprise.  Ignoring the downed Ranma, they retrieved his book bag.  Opened it and pulled out a largish book.  Even at this distance, Karadoku's surprise was obvious.

            "'Ten Easy Steps to Non-Lethal Cooking'?" he asked.  "This is the book we've been after?"

            Zara, sighing, said, "No."

            "But. . . ."

            "Obviously we have been tricked."

            The younger man's surprise twisted into anger.  He turned back towards Ranma.  The pigtailed boy was just struggling to his feet, propped up by a single shaky arm, when a savage kick to the ribs by Karadoku dropped him once more.  The crowd's murmuring turned angry.

            "Where's the book?" Karadoku demanded, stomping down on Ranma's back, grabbing him by the pigtail, hauling his head up.  "Eh?  Where'd you put it, you piece of shit?"  He shoved Ranma's face into the book.  "You think I let you bust my nose for this?"

            Obvious, unfeigned surprise flashed across Saotome's face, before disappearing behind a tight-lipped smile of resolute defiance.  He said something, voice hardly above a whisper; Ryu could not make it out, but whatever was said had a clearly angered the victor.

            Karadoku responded by slamming the boy's head into the ground.  He kicked him again.  And again.  Yanked him off the ground by the shirt and reared back with his crippled arm.  And before he realized he had taken a single step, Ryu found himself halfway across the yard to join Ranma, bokken materializing at his side and held low and ready. 

            "Leave him alone!" he yelled.  "You've already beaten him!"

            Still holding a limp Ranma in one hand, Karadoku turned on him.  "You going to make me?  With that stick of yours?"

            Only then did he realize he was hopelessly outmatched.  This man had defeated Ranma; Ranma defeated Kuno on a regular basis; and Ryu had always known better than to challenge his sempai.  Had Kuno felt this fear, facing Ranma every morning?  How did he continue, knowing defeat to be all but certain?  Fighting down burgeoning panic, Ryu raised his weapon.  "If I have to," he said, mouth suddenly dry.

            Karadoku laughed.  "Said the boy, ready to piss himself."

            "Leave them," intruded a voice: the old man, walking past, either oblivious or uncaring of the standoff taking place.  "The boy obviously knows nothing as to the book's whereabouts.  He was as surprised as we.  It is in the book's nature to change hands quickly.  I suspect that if he has lost it so soon, then it already too late.  Pity the weak one who now holds the book."

            The younger man spared a glance at Zara, and though Ryu saw an opportunity to attack, he did not dare try and take advantage of it.  Karadoku seemed to have entirely forgotten about his presence.  "Then what do we do now?"

            "There are alternative methods that I know of."

            "Right."  Karadoku returned his attention to Ryu, and the kendoist knew he had not been forgotten, he simply hadn't been worth consideration.  "You're lucky, Stick-boy," he said, and smiled.  Then, looking down at Ranma, his shirt still clenched in one fist, he scowled.  "As for you. . . ."  His withered arm, still held ready, flashed down, faster than the watching kendoist could follow, before he could cry out; the arm slashed out and the bony, hooked hand plunged into the pigtailed martial artist's chest; twisted, and ripped across.  Ranma cried out, blood spattering out from his wound, and fell to the ground.  "As for you," continued the victor, "you were a real disappointment."

            Karadoku turned and walked away.  He rejoined his companion even as Ryu knelt next to Ranma.  Ranma, who was clutching at his chest, body curled around the wound, gasping in pain.

            "Are you alright?" asked Ryu.

            Not gasping, he realized, as Ranma straightened out, struggling up on one arm and one leg, to glare fiercely at his receding opponent.  Not gasping: rather something between a laugh and a sob, tears of pain and rage springing to his eyes, and through the contorted features of Ranma's face curled a vicious smile unlike any Ryu had ever seen.

            Ranma Saotome later lay face up on the ground, eyes open and unblinking, and contemplated his defeat.  Someone was at his side, nudging him, an incessant voice in his ear that was to be ignored.  The ground beneath him vibrated with the steps of many people, charging across the yard to surround his unmoving form.  He ignored them.  His chest throbbed with pain, breathing hurt, and his numbed leg tingled with the discomfort of a thousand sharp pins.  The pain was ignored as well.

            'Leave him alone!  You've already beaten him!'

            A slight frown creased his brow.  He had lost.  Badly.  To an ordinary man: not a god, not a descendant of dragons -- only a man, much like himself.  Another martial artist.

            How did I lose?  The first, and easiest answer, galling though it may be: I underestimated him, Ranma thought.  I guarded against the crippled arm, but when it didn't move, I ignored it.  I underestimated his speed, his strength, his skill.  I fell for his trick, for that arm of his; that surprisingly quick, oddly-moving limb, the tearing bony hooked hand that struck with uncanny precision.  I retreated at the wrong time, failed to compensate for his switch from earlier defensive fighting to aggressive assault.  I thought him weak and was proved wrong; he wasn't even going full out, and I read him wrong and paid the price. 

            'As for you, you were a real disappointment.'

            No kidding, Ranma thought.  For despite the reasons above, he understood the true reason for his loss: not that he had underestimated his opponent, but that he had overestimated himself.  Even with one leg and one arm out, he ought to have been able to fight his enemy to at least a stalemate.  Ranma knew he was at -least- that good.  But his timing had been all off.  His strikes weak.  His stamina pathetic, his endurance worse.  No way he should have fallen so quickly; no way his final strike, desperate as it had been, should have been shrugged off so easily.  That bastard should've been at least stunned, Ranma thought, I put everything I had into that, and he walked right through it.  No way.  I'm off my game, I'm way off my game.  Time to train.

            And then he remembered something said by the old man:  'Pity the weak one who now holds the book.'

            He turned his head and saw the cookbook laying next to him.  Why would a cookbook be in his bookbag?  His eyes widened as sudden comprehension dawned on him.

            Akane.

            Pain suddenly forgotten, Ranma leapt to his feet, seized by panic.  The cries of surprise around him went unheard.  He almost knocked over the boy crouched next to him and only marginally noticed.  He broke into a run, heart pounding.  Stupid tomboy! he swore, increasing his speed.  How dare she, he thought, stealing my book like that, she must've swapped it when I wasn't looking or something.  Why would she do something stupid like that?  He ignored the insidious little voice that suggested that, had she -not- swapped the book, he would have just lost it.  Instead he cleared the wall surrounding the school with a single jump, and made for the Tendos' as quickly as his legs would carry him.

            Ryu Shori watched in amazement as Ranma bounced back to his feet and, without so much as a glance back, left the school at a gallop.

            "Wasn't his leg paralysed?" someone asked.

            Ryu shrugged and wondered at the look of sudden consternation on Ranma's face.  Wondered who the two strangers had been and what this book they were after was, and where the book itself has disappeared to.

            "What's the hell's going on?" he said out loud to no one in particular, knowing full well that he'd probably never find out.

            It took him longer than expected to cross the distance between Furinkan and Akane's home, the wound to his chest forcing him to stop halfway, lungs burning, until the pain subsided.  Through the tattered remains of his shirt a massive bruise dappled his flesh blue and black; at its centre a jagged, scabby slash peeked angrily.  Minutes were lost before, clutching his chest, he forced himself to continue.

            With his breath rasping and the wound an almost debilitating pain, he leapt through the front door of the Tendo household, nearly crashing into a very surprised Kasumi Tendo.

            "Oh my!" she exclaimed, falling back a step.

            "Where's Akane?" he demanded.

            "Ranma, are you alright?"

            "Akane, Kasumi!" he said, voice urgent, forceful.  "Where is she?"

            Eyes uncomprehending but filling with sudden concern, she nodded and pointed toward the staircase.  "She's in her room.  She's been there all morning, studying.  She said she didn't want to be disturbed."

            "Get Mr. Tendo," he shouted, springing by her.  "Trouble might be coming!"  He took the stairs three at a time.  Akane had the book; Karadoku and Zara wanted it, and if they found him, they might be able to trace it back here; the book itself might be a threat; 'pity the weak fool who. . ." indeed.

            Clearing the last step and turning the corner, he halted at an unexpected sight.  A tall, slender man stood outside Akane's door.  Dirty blond hair flowed down his back in a pony-tail, startling white in contrast with his long, dark coat.  He turned his head at Ranma's arrival and gazed enigmatically at him from behind dark, round glasses.  A slight smile curled his lip.

            "You're too late, you know," he said.

            Ranma approached cautiously, despite his concern for Akane.  He'd already tangled with one freak interested in the damn book; who knew what this new guy's story was.  "Who are you?"

            "My name is Gabriel," he answered.  "But it doesn't matter.  I don't imagine we'll ever meet again."

            The pigtailed boy shuffled closer to the door, back to the wall.  The man nodded slightly and, without losing his sardonic grin, stood aside.  "Go ahead."

            Keeping one eye on the man, Ranma grabbed the doorknob.  Sudden electric agony tore through his body, standing his hair on end.  His muscles clenched up, held him there and in pain, until a muscle spasm sent him flying back, crashing into the opposing wall.

            "The room is sealed against entry," offered the man.  "It's her own fault, too."

            "Like hell it is," Ranma said angrily.  With a loud cry he smashed his fist into the door.  It shattered into splinters and fell away.  A greenish barrier shimmered transparently in its place and cracked ominously as the broken door rebounded off.  Smaller shards struck once and burst into brief lived flames.

            "It goes all around the room," added the stranger behind him.  "Behind the walls, across the windows; the only way in is through, and I've seen very few people capable of managing -that-."

            The barrier tinted everything he saw beyond with its flickering greenish light, imbuing it with an otherworldly semblance.  His breath caught in his chest as he saw Akane sitting in the middle of her room.

            She sat cross-legged and unmoving, still in the same worn clothing of this morning and the day before.  The book lay cradled in her lap, and the open pages glowed a deep luminous green.  Greyish tendrils uncurled slowly from within the light's depth.  Thick, mottled grey and seeping viscous fluid, they slithered across the floor and reached up the walls; reaching from within the book, they crept along Akane's fiercely clenched arms and coiled about sweat-drenched legs.  They ensnared her in their embrace and stretched towards her face, where her mouth gaped open in a silent scream, eyes wide and unseeing; sought to envelop her fully within their grasp even as Ranma watched on in silent horror.

            "It won't be much longer now," noted the stranger.  "The key's almost fully emerged."

            Ranma bounced back into a ready crouch, face set with fierce determination.  "Only way in is through?" he growled.

            "Don't!" the man exclaimed.  "You'll kill yourself!"

            "That's my fiancee in there!"  Ranma sprang forward.  His yelled "Akane!" resounded throughout the household; a moment later so did his tortured scream as he grappled with the scintillating wall.  Fierce pain seized him as he strove to force his hands through the barrier, fingers clawing with the unyielding energy that crackled and arced beneath his body and burnt welts across his skin.  His hair rose and danced about his head in a halo; his torn shirt snapped back and about him.  An acrid, unpleasant scent assaulted him and he realized it was the smell of his own smoldering flesh and clothes.  His fingers, it seemed, sank a fraction of a centimetre through the wall.

            Deeper pain seared across his torso, piercing deeply into his already torn chest.  The sound of his own cries echoed in his ears and twisted and suddenly sounded much like the tormented mewls of a dying cat, and even as he sank another fraction forward the outraged thought flashed across his mind:

             -- I won't lose again!  Not again! -- 

            even as excruciating hurt demanded he pull back, even as his clothes burst into flames about him, even as his vision faded before the electric charge that threatened to tear him apart.  Then, a voice, a half-strangled moan, impossibly heard through his own voice: Akane's soft plea for help:

            "Ranma. . . ."

            "AKANE!" he screamed, and pushed and strained with redoubled effort, pushing aside the pain, the green glow falling back before the blaze of his own surging aura; and suddenly his hands were through, he lurched a step ahead, his face smacking into the barrier as he sank forward up to his wrists.  Without hesitation he reached down, palms slapping flat against the inside of the wall.

            "Moko Takabisha!"

            Twin massive blasts impacted against the surface, and it flared brightly and rippled beneath his hands.  For a brief moment his world was a crazy mix of strobing green; twin tigers striving for domination over opposing strength; and of excruciating pain as his own technique launched him forward through a barrier that pushed him back; and then the strain disappeared, the tearing flames were gone, and he catapulted forward into Akane's room.

            The ecstasy that followed the cessation of pain was nearly as debilitating as the pain itself, but Ranma, operating purely on instinct, vision still spotty and every muscle protesting every demand, rolled out of his landing; snagged a shinnai as he rose and twisted back towards the centre of the room.  His weapon slashed down in a savage arc at the nearest writhing thing.  Something thudded wetly to the ground as he connected.  Even as his eyes cleared and he sailed forward, past now-wildly trashing puckered tendrils, cutting an ichorous path out of the forest of limbs that blocked his way, a high-pitched keening scream filled the air.

            In an instant every foreign limb flowed back into the book, releasing their grasp upon the room.  The light faded.  Akane suddenly slumped to the side.  Ranma leapt forward and caught her before she hit the ground.  Cradled in his arms, he watched as the last tendril uncurled from about her forehead; and as it slid away, mucous fluid slick across her skin, he saw a unfamiliar sigil flare to life upon her brow.

            Its light was brilliant, and through slitted eyes Ranma momentarily saw nothing.  Yet as it dimmed, and the symbol itself faded from view leaving no visible marks upon her skin, he was surprised to see both the book, and everything that had emerged from it, gone.  Green glow, hacked flesh, slimy trails: nothing, other than his own abiding pain and the hole in the wall, suggested than anything had happened.

            "Oh my," whispered a voice from behind.

            Looking back, Akane still held protectively in his arms, he saw a stunned Kasumi and Mr. Tendo step through the shattered remains of his entrance.  The same blast that had propelled him through the barrier had destroyed most of one wall of the room.

            Mr. Tendo seemed unaware of the damage.  "Akane. . . ?" he asked.

            He glanced down at her and looked back up with a smile.  "She's fine, Mr. Tendo."

            Ranma noticed the stranger standing behind the two Tendos, watching from outside the broken room.  The man's impassive gaze of earlier was now one of surprise.

            "What the hell is going on here?" Ranma demanded.

            "You made it through," he half-whispered, voice tainted with grudging surprise.

            "What happened?" Ranma repeated heatedly.

            "You interfered with the ritual.  I've never heard of that happening."

            "Ritual?  What ritual?  What the hell are you talkin' about?  It's just a damn book!  What the hell were those things?"

            The man stepped into the room, looking about with obvious interest.  "That 'damn book,' as you put it, is a very old, very dangerous text, that ensnared the will of your fiancee and led her to begin the summoning of what you saw."

            "That's crazy," Ranma shot back.  "Akane'd never bother with stuff like that!"

            The man spared him a glance, eyes somehow mocking behind his dark glasses.  "Of course she wouldn't -- unless the book offered her something she wanted, something she yearned for desperately.  Who knows what it was.  Doesn't matter.  It was enough for her to hide away into her room and begin -- this.  I arrived too late to prevent her from beginning; apparently you arrived in time to prevent her from finishing."

            Ranma felt a moment of hopeful relief.  "So she'll be okay."

            And the man threw his head back and released a harsh, mocking laugh.  "Oh no," he said, smiling bitterly.  "No, at best, you've bought yourself some time.  A week, maybe two; but already things have felt her call and will awaken and come to retrieve what is now theirs; they will come and they will take her, and they will kill you if you try to stop them.  As for her. . . death will be something she comes to envy."

            "Who do you think. . . ."

            "It doesn't matter," the man said, and his sharp, angular features faded back into their earlier impassiveness.  "There's no point in talking any longer.  You're all as good as dead, anyway.  I'd wish you good luck, but there's no point.  I suggest you enjoy the time you have left."

            He turned away, straight into Mr. Tendo, whose eyes brimmed with unshed tears and a silent plea.  "If you know so much," he said, "you must be able to help."

            Shaking his head, the stranger pushed past the older man and stepped back into the hallway.  "It's not my place to interfere," he stated, voice flat.  "Only to watch."  He walked away without another word.

            But Ranma was no longer paying attention, focussed entirely on the figure cradled in his arms, her features relaxed into sleep, the slightest of smiles playing about her lips.  She was so unbelievably cute.  Beautiful, even.  He brushed back an errant strand of hair, and looked up at his future father-in-law.  "Don't worry, Mr. Tendo," he said.  "Akane's alright.  Don't worry 'bout nothing that weirdo said.  Nothings ever gonna hurt Akane, not so long as I live."

            Mr. Tendo nodded and backed away, worry and hope vying for domination across his features.  As he left his eldest daughter came forward.

            Kasumi knelt next to him, first-aid kit in hand, and asked, "How are you feeling, Ranma?"

            Her question reminded him of his ordeal, and pain flared up across his body as he suddenly took stock of his many wounds; but the smile he turned on her was happy, and he replied:

            "Fine, Kasumi.  It's been a great day."

Continues in

Chapter Two: Fresh Scars


	3. Fresh Scars

What has gone before:

While visiting a possible future university, Ranma ran afoul of Happosai.  During the inevitable fight, a strange book was slipped into his possession.  Upon inspection, the book hinted at both Jusenkyo and the possibilities of a cure.  Heading to school the next day in the hopes of finding someone to help translate the text, he instead was confronted by two other individuals seeking the book.  Their names were Zara and Karadoku.  A battle ensued, which Ranma lost.  The book, however, was not on him, and Ranma realized that Akane had taken it from him during a moment of distraction.  Running home, he discovered his fiancee entrapped by magics she had unwittingly released from the book.  He rescued her, but in the aftermath a strange sigil flared briefly upon her brow.  Gabriel, a man watching from the sidelines, warned of worse to come.

***

The thin line, pale against his skin, started a centimetre or two above the left nipple.  It followed the inner pectoral curve halfway down, before twisting sharply and slashing straight across the flesh of his right breast.  It ended abruptly, in a mottled ridge of hardened tissue.  Ranma Saotome shifted this way and that, examining the fresh scar in the mirror, and estimated it to be nearly forty centimetres long.  A scar, he thought, not entirely displeased but rather surprised.  I've never had one before.  I wonder what Akane will think of it.

                He never scarred.  He healed too quickly.  Despite the frequent and savage beatings he had suffered throughout his career as a martial artist, there had yet to be a wound from which he could not recover quickly.  And yet, there it was, the long, slightly jagged line curving across his chest.  That guy from yesterday, Karadoku, he did this, Ranma thought.  At the end, when I was already down.  He cut me deeper than I thought.  And before it had time to heal properly, I wrestled with that barrier, and the heat must have burned the gash into my chest.

                Curious, he splashed his face with water, and the shift into girlhood did far more to dispel early morning sleepiness than the bracing chill.  The scar remained but followed a different path across his fuller chest.  The scar's beginning stood in sharp contrast against the dark skin of the larger areola.  Made sinuous through stretching, the wound now coiled from the top of one full breast and curled out of sight beneath the curve of the other.  He slowly traced the line and rolled the skin between two fingers, feeling the different texture of the rawer tissue.  A slow smile crept across his face.

Let the Curtain Fall

by Michael Noakes

                Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;

                Light dies before thine uncreating word:

                Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;

                And universal darkness buries all.

-               _The Dunciad_

Act One,

Part Two:

Fresh Scars

He sneaked into his parents' room with all the subtle prowess that his own father had taught him.  In the empty quiet and pale darkness of the very early morning, Ranma Saotome crept soundlessly across tatami as he approached Genma's supine form.  The spring air was cool, its scent fresh, the slight breeze an exhilarating backdrop to his subterfuge.  His mother's form was all but hidden behind his father's massive bulk.  Neither stirred as he knelt next to their shared futon; Genma's deep human snores didn't lessen.  Ranma knew that snore well, he had lived with its nightly snorts for more than a decade.  How many times had he lain awake in the pre-dawn dusk on some foreign soil, listening to those rumbles, reassured by their continuance?  As the sun would slowly rise the sound would falter, die out, and within minutes his father would be up, dragging Ranma from beneath his blanket, and the morning's training would begin.

                Now?  No more snores; no more training.  That was about to change.

                "Hey, Pop," he whispered.  "Get up."

                No response, nor had he expected one.  Ranma smirked.  He cocked one arm back.  Time to wake up, he thought, and brought the fist smashing down.

                Genma's large hand snapped up and caught the attack.  A moment later his eyes opened and focussed on his grinning son leaning over him.  "What," he asked, anger underscoring his loud whisper, "do you think you're doing?"

                "Getting you up, old man."

                The Saotome patriarch released his son's fist and glanced at the alarm clock at his side.  His eyes widened in surprise.  "Ranma, it's only four o'clock!  What the hell are you doing here?  I thought you stayed the night at Tendo's."

                "So I came home early."

                "Early?  I don't have to get up for another hour!"

                "Sorry, Pops, but you have to get up now."

                "Why on earth would I do that?"

                "Training time."

                "What?"  Genma's eyes narrowed.  "Your arrogance knows no bounds, Boy.  You think it's your turn to dictate when we train, now?"

                "Yeah, Pop, I do," Ranma answered, smile dropping.  "'Cus you sure as hell ain't dictating nothin'.  We haven't sparred in weeks."

                "You spar with Akane.  That should suffice."  He rolled over, turning away from his son.  "Now leave me alone.  I've still got an hour left."

                Ranma watched his father's unmoving bulk for several minutes.  Severe disappointment rose within; accompanying it were the first inklings of contempt.  Pathetic, he thought.  But then he remembered the tired eyes of two days ago and his own arrogance turned bitter: perhaps something unseen, something he couldn't understand, lay at the root of his father's apathy.

                But, no, he told himself, no excuses.  The Art before all else, that's what Pop taught me.  Train hard in times of health; when sick, train to get better.  Train hard when focussed; when troubled, train to dispel the distraction.  How to remind his father of this?  Would the old hypocrite even listen?

                Sighing, Ranma left the room.

                The attack, coming from behind as it did in the midst of his training, almost took him by surprise.  As it was, he just had enough time to twist around and cleave the incoming log from the air with a swift chop.  Genma stepped from the doorway that had concealed his presence, and frowned.

                "Pathetic," he said.  "You've got a girl's predilection towards self-absorption and obliviousness."

                Ranma faced his father, and concealed his happiness at Genma's arrival behind a scowl.  "Yeah, whatever.  I've got training to do, so if you don't mind. . . I don't got time for old men."  Turning away, he began the first moves of an intermediate kata.  At around the fifth step, Genma's flying kick caught him in the side and sent him crashing into a wall.  Bouncing back, Ranma ducked beneath the follow-up strike, stepping in and past his opponent.  He turned and faced his father across the small distance between them.

                "So you've still got some fight left in you, eh, old man?"

                "I'll show you just how much I've got left, Boy!"

                And then they both smiled, and with a battle cry that rang loud and clear through the quiet morning dusk, father and son found themselves amidst a flurry of punches and kicks.

                Ranma almost skipped along as he made his way towards his fiancee's house.  In a moment of weakness he even whistled a nameless happy little tune.  He threw a few cheerful punches at an unseen opponent, danced around imaginary attacks.  Catching a few odd glances, he smiled in return and slipped back into a normal walk.

                What a great way to start a day, he thought, and felt like shouting it aloud.  Had he ever missed sparring in the morning!  With his old, fat, cheating lazy panda of a father.  His lying stealing hypocrite of a shitty old man.  His dad.  Still full of surprises.  Ranma felt the new bruise on his side and grinned.  He wouldn't fall for that sneaky little attack again tomorrow.

                Only thirty minutes, and in that brief time the dullness that had pervaded Genma's eyes for weeks had faded and been replaced by the familiar sly twinkle that Ranma had so missed.  Later, at the breakfast table, they had traded covert strikes at each other's food, snagged morsels behind his mother's back.  Innocent grins hiding stuffed mouths was all she found when turned to confront them.  Man, Ranma thought, I don't think Pop's been this happy in months.

                Not entirely happy, Ranma reminded himself.  For at the end of their sparring session, Genma had levelled a serious expression at his son and demanded an explanation.

                "An explanation?" Ranma had asked, reaching for his shirt.

                "The scar."

                Which had come as a surprise to the younger Saotome.  After the events of last night, he had called home to tell his parents about what had happened.  It was at his mother's urging that he had stayed the night at the Tendos' -- not that he had had any intent of leaving the household unguarded for the night.  He had wanted to tell his father, but he had not yet returned from work; he had assumed Nodoka would pass the information along.  Yet the full explanation had come as a complete surprise to Genma.

                "That's no good," he had said, and frowned.  "You shouldn't have lost."

                "That's what I say."

                "You need to step up your training.  You've been lazy."

                Which had just been an invitation for a beating, and they had fought some more, and insulted each other some more, and finally ended with an agreement that they would return to their morning training.  Ranma had no delusion that it would be easy.  Once the initial excitement faded, he wondered if he would be so ecstatic about getting up at four in the morning, every morning.  But we need it, he thought.  He absently traced the new line decorating his chest through the material of his shirt.  I have a debt to repay.

                After the second fight, they had leapt to the top of their apartment complex to watch as the rising sun dispelled the curtain of night and tainted the far horizon in bloody hues.  Neither had spoken, nor had there been any need to.  The moment had been a reminder of simpler days, long ago, spent together watching similar dawns in the euphoric aftermath of successful training.  Only after, once they had returned to the ground, had Genma continued his questions.

                "Is Akane alright?"

                 "Yeah," Ranma had answered.  "She looked a little dazed when she woke up last night, but fine.  Kasumi sent her straight to bed."

                "And you left her alone?"

                "Hey, I didn't have a choice!  The weird guy said we had some time -- and if bad things are coming, I need to be ready.  I'm gonna head back as soon as we're done here."  Then he had shrugged, and grinned sheepishly, and added, "Besides, I stood guard by her door all night.  I haven't been to sleep yet.  I'm bushed."

                And Genma had laughed and slapped him hard across the back.

                Breaking out of his musing, Ranma slowly became aware of a commotion up ahead.  A small crowd was clustered together at the next street corner, and amidst their number he could see police officers moving about and controlling the people.  Well, that's strange, he thought, the police don't come around here all that often.  I wonder what's up?  He moved closer.

                "There's no point," said a tremulous, familiar voice from behind.  "They've already cleaned everything up."

                "Gosunkugi?" Ranma exclaimed, surprised and, if not entirely pleased, not quite displeased to see the scrawny, pale-faced guy again.  "Hey, man, what's up?  I haven't seen you in months."

                "I've been around.  I've also been busy," the boy answered.  "Getting a portfolio together.  For university."  He gestured at the expensive-looking camera at his side.

                "Ah," Ranma said, craning his neck to see past the people blocking his view.

                "I like taking pictures in the early morning.  It's quiet.  And honest."

                "How interesting."

                "You're not going to see anything."

                "Un."

                "I have to go now."

                "Bye."

                Ranma didn't really notice Gosunkugi's departure.  His efforts to find out why the police were around, however, came to nothing.  "Nothing to see here," one officer insisted, and indeed it seemed that whatever had happened was long over.  Minutes later the crowd dispersed and, slightly bemused, still curious, and somewhat disappointed, Ranma continued on his way.  Whatever it was, he told himself, it couldn't have been all that important.  Maybe it'll pop up on the news tonight or something.

                He hesitated momentarily at the front door, as he always did, before entering without knocking.  It's strange, Ranma mused, but this house still feels more like home than the new place does.  Or at least as close to a home as I've ever known.  Thinking that way made him feel guilty, like he was betraying his mother or something; but the familiarity he felt as he slipped out of his shoes and stepped into the house remained both comforting and welcoming.  The atmosphere here was simply less stressful than at home.

                "Ranma," howled Mr. Tendo, the moment he laid eyes upon the boy, "where have you been?"

                "Mr. Tendo?"

                "My daughter was nearly ravaged by arcane forces from beyond the pale!  Evil beings sworn to destroy us all are coming!  And you go and take a _morning stroll_?"

                "Don't worry about him," added a dry voice, "he's been like this all morning."

                Ranma turned as Nabiki slid into the room, can of cola in hand.  He was surprised to find her here, for he hadn't seen much of her lately.  She rarely visited.  The middle Tendo daughter, now nineteen, looked as if life was treating her very well indeed.  Whereas Akane, in growing up and filling out, had lost some of the tomboy edge from her appearance, Nabiki had most certainly made the shift into sexy -- and she damn well knew it.  The hair was shorter, the clothes sharper, the mannerisms more refined; rumour had it she had a boyfriend now, a starving artist, even; but it was the same mischievous Nabiki that levelled half-lidded eyes upon her future brother-in-law, and caused the return of the familiar shiver that two years of living with her had conditioned into him.

                "Kasumi gave me a call last night," she offered by way of explanation, taking a seat.  "So I thought I'd come by for a visit.  And before you ask, yes, Tokyo U's great, having fun, doing well."

                "Happy to hear. . . ."

                "Kuno says hi.  Well, not really.  He says 'a thousand black plagues upon the vile Saotome and the entire lineage that spawned him.'  He also says, 'a thousand thousand sweet kisses to the radiant angel who holds my heart, the boisterous pigtailed girl.'"

                "Gyah."

                "Would you believe he's actually calmed down a lot?  But that's not important.  The _real_ question is: what have you gotten my baby sister into _this_ time?"

                "Hey!" Ranma flushed red, in protest and some anger -- while feeling the stirring of familiar guilt.  "I didn't do anything!  She's the one who stole the book from me!"

                Nabiki arched an eyebrow.  "And who's the one who found the book in the first place?"

                "But-."

                "That's enough, Nabiki," interrupted a soft voice.  "It's not nice to tease Ranma like that.  I'm sure he feels bad enough as it is."

                Kasumi, coming down the stair carrying a tray of dirty dishes, offered up her usual warm, welcoming smile.  She had entered adulthood with grace as well, gathering an unaffected serene beauty about her.  It was hard to believe that Kasumi was now in her twenties, Nabiki nineteen -- but then, he was eighteen, and sometimes he found himself wondering where the last two years had gone.  "And I'm sure," the oldest sister continued, "that he'll do everything he can to get Akane out of the trouble he caused, right, Ranma?"

                Ah, geez, he though, grousing silently.  I'd forgotten why I hated it when weird stuff happens around here: the guilt trips.  Soun's half-angry, half-tearful glare; Nabiki's knowing smirk; and worst of all, Kasumi's understanding smile.  The only thing missing is Akane's angry ranting.

                "Um," he said, looking around, "Where's Akane?"

                "She's dead," Nabiki said, flatly.

                "Nabiki!"

                "Just kidding, Kasumi."

                "That wasn't very funny."

                "Really?  Personally, I think seeing Ranma go into spastic shock is _very_ amusing."

                Ranma picked himself off of the floor and levelled a baleful glare at Nabiki.  "Cute."

                She shrugged, smiled, and pointed upstairs.  "She's in her room.  Kasumi confined her to bed until she's feeling better.  Why don't you go say hi?"

                The early-morning construction crew, he noted, had to be commended on an excellent job.  If you didn't know where to look, you wouldn't be able to tell that he had blown half the room away the night before.  The wall was repaired and painted and looked as good as new -- even the door was back, complete with yellow duck nameplate.  Ranma gave a soft knock, waited a moment, then quietly let himself in.

                Much of the internal damage of last night had been cleared away as well, no doubt owing to Kasumi's supernatural cleaning abilities.  A few signs remained of last night's struggle -- an oddly dark, oily stain tainting Akane's shinai; a very slight, acrid taste to the air that the open window couldn't quite dispel -- but otherwise Akane's room looked as normal as ever.

                "Oh, thank goodness!" Akane exclaimed as he entered, sitting upright in bed.  "You came!"

                "Akane!" he said, rushing to her side.

                "You've got to get me out of here!"

                Sudden fear seized Ranma.  Did she sense some imminent danger, was she somehow attuned to the implied threats of last night?  He looked around again, this time more attentively, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.  "What's wrong?" he asked.

                "I'm going insane!  Kasumi's smothering me to death!"  She threw her sheets aside and went to stand.  She was still dressed in her pyjamas, the yellow ones with the fishcakes.  Ranma had to admit that, aside from the look of desperate annoyance on her face, she looked none the worse for wear.  Still, one couldn't be too careful. . . .

                "Ranma, what do you think you're doing?"

                "Nothing."

                "Will you please stop groping my forehead?"

                "Um, okay?" he answered, and gingerly retrieved his hand from her wrist-lock.

                "I'm telling you, I'm fine!"

                He shrugged, and took a seat on the floor, and a moment later she slumped back down onto her bed.  "I dunno, Akane.  You had some pretty nasty shit happen to you last night."

                Akane's face clouded slightly.  "But that's just it.  I don't remember any of it!  And Dad and Kasumi haven't helped, they've been really vague.  She's keeping me cooped up in my room, and I don't even know why!"

                "You don't remember?" he said, surprised.  "Any of it?"

                "No.  But you're going to tell me what happened, right?"

                He paused, though only momentarily.  Should she know?  The events of last night had been strange, even for him, and the implied threat worrisome -- should she be burdened by these concerns? Her life was running so smoothly now, and she had so many normal things to deal with as it was: school, university, moving on.  She was happy like this, and what right did he have to steal that pleasure from her?  Why pass the worry on, when he could shoulder the burden for her?

                Only. . . he didn't like lying to her; and if she was in danger, she could better defend herself if she was forewarned.  That was reason enough in itself.

                So he filled her in on what had happened, and if she noticed his initial hesitation, she didn't comment on it.  As he fleshed out the story, he saw her eyes slowly light up with recognition -- and muted horror.  Akane interrupted him as he began to describe how he had leapt through the barrier.

                "I. . . remember now.  It's hard, but I can if I concentrate.  It's like it was a dream or something.  A bad dream.  But I remember, I was awake, and frightened, and these. . . things were grabbing me, and I wanted to throw them off but I couldn't move, I couldn't move a muscle.  And the voices. . . ."

                "Voices?"

                Akane nodded.  She slipped off her bed and curled up across from him on the floor, legs drawn up to her chest.  She peered at him with anxious eyes over her knees.  "I couldn't understand them, what they were saying.  There were a lot of them.  Whispering, nonstop, filling my head with their sound. . . ."  She trailed off, then shook her head as if to dispel an errant thought, and returned her attention to him.  "What happened next?"

                "Not much," he answered.  "I hacked at a few of those tendrils, and suddenly everything just went away."

                "The book!" Akane suddenly exclaimed, looking around.  "Where is it?"

                Ranma shrugged.  "It's gone.  It disappeared along with everything else."  He noted the crestfallen look that came over her.  "Hey, what's wrong?  I'd think you'd be happy that that thing was gone."

                "Yeah, I guess so. . . ."

                He watched her in silence, as she seemed to dwell upon her disappointment, and wondered why.  Then, as loath as he was to do so, he realized there was more that had to be said.  "There's something else, Akane.  After everything was gone, you passed out.  Something flashed on your forehead -- some kind of symbol or something."  He smiled slightly as she reached anxiously for her brow, fingers tentatively extended.  "There's nothing there now.  But some strange guy said that you were in danger."

                She started.  "Danger?"

                "Yeah."  Ranma glanced aside and frowned.  "He wasn't too specific on the details.  I'm not sure if I even understood him.  Or believed him.  But he said you almost summoned something, and because of that, things were coming to get you."

                "Things?"  Her voice wavered.  "Like last night?"

                "I don't know.  He just said things were coming."  Ranma didn't add that Gabriel had also said that they couldn't be stopped.  Because he refused to believe that.  If things really were coming, he would stop them, no matter what they were.

                Akane slowly digested this, before falling back against her bed and throwing one arm across her face -- and laughing.  "No wonder Kasumi's so worried!  Ha, she must have been really freaked out by everything.  It's been so quiet here lately!  And poor Dad!"

                "It's not really funny, Akane."

                "Of course it's not," she answered, and leapt to her feet.  She rushed over to her mirror.  She felt and rubbed at the skin of her forehead.  "A symbol, you say?  Where did it go?"  She glanced back at him, then back at the mirror.  "Maybe it only glows when I activate my magical powers, like one of those magical girls on the news, right?"  She turned, struck a ludicrous pose, and jabbed a finger at her fiance.  "Beware, Ranma!" she exclaimed.  "For I am now. . . Sailor, um. . . Mallet!  Fighting for justice and, um, piglets, and really cute things!"

                "This is serious, Akane," Ranma insisted, getting to his feet.

                She sighed.  "I know, I know.  But what do you want me to do?  Cry?  Move to Canada?  Some stranger tells you I'm in danger, and I should put my life on hold?"  She shook her head.  "No way.  Nothing's going to change.  And I'm certainly not going to stay in my room all day.  I'll keep an eye out for danger -- more so than normal, that is -- but I've got exams to study for, and stuff to do."  She levelled a glare at him.  "And you're not going to stop me!"

                Ranma smiled, and raised his hands placatingly, and promised that he wouldn't, and thought, you do what you want, Akane, but I'm not leaving your side until this thing is over.  You might not take this seriously, but I do -- and nothing's ever going to hurt you.  Not so long as I live.

                Ranma stepped into the dojo, now dressed in his dogi, and noted that Akane was ready.  But then, noticing her surprised stare, he stopped and looked around.

                "What?"

                "Your chest," she said, and pointed.  "Where did that scar come from?"

                He glanced down and saw that the white line was clearly visible in the V that his dogi left exposed.  Ranma blushed, but felt pleased that she had noticed, and then remembered that she probably hadn't heard about yesterday's fight, either.

                Shrugging, he walked forward to meet her, stripping off his top as he went.  "I got into a fight yesterday," Ranma began, and quickly filled her in on the details.  "So he slashed me when I was down.  Then I rushed here and forced my way through that barrier.  I think it burnt the scar into me before I had time to heal."  He passed one hand across his chest.  "So, um," he said, suddenly hesitant, "what do you think?"

                "Not bad," Nabiki said, appearing behind him.  "Impressive enough, and it's got a cool story behind it, so that's worth something."  She traced the line with one finger, and smiled as he shivered.  "Not very aesthetic, though.  Doesn't have the panache of a, Kenshin, say."

                Akane nodded in agreement.  "Or a Kenshiro."

                "Captain Harlock's. . . ."

                "Manji's."

                "Oh, and Sagat!"

                "Why, even Recca's is better," added Kasumi, entering the dojo.

                "Well I think it looks cool," Ranma retorted, and pouted.  Then he saw what the oldest Tendo sister had cradled in her arms.  "Porker!" he exclaimed, pointing.

                "What?  Where?"  Akane looked.  "P-chan!"

                "I found him wandering around the living room," Kasumi explained, "so I thought I'd bring him to you.  It has been awhile, hasn't it?"  She gently scratched the pig beneath the snout and laughed as it blushed.  But Ranma's transformed rival, and Akane's occasional pet, kept his eyes fixed on Ranma, and pointed at his chest with one cloven hoof.  "Bwee?" he asked.

                "It's a scar," explained Akane.  "He lost a fight yesterday."  Then she turned to Ranma.  "See, Ranma?  He cares!  He's worried about you!"

                "He doesn't sound too worried to me," said Nabiki.

                "Bwee bwee buki bebweeee!" added P-chan, and it sounded suspiciously like laughter.

                "Shut up!  Who asked you, anyway?  I still look cooler than all those other guys, anyway."

                "Buki!" disagreed the pig.

                "He has a point," said Akane.  "Grappler Baki's scars are a lot more impressive than yours."

                "Oh, I can't believe this," muttered Ranma.  "I'm losing an argument to a pig.  Enough with the scars already!  Are we going to practice today, or what?"

                "What," said Nabiki.  "Sorry, but Daddy dearest wants to have a little talk with Akane."

                "Really?"  Akane turned to Ranma.  "Do you mind waiting?"

                He shrugged.  "Why not.  But could you leave the pig here?"

                She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.  "Why?"

                "Mr. P and I just wanna have words, ain't that right, P?  It's been a while."

                "He better be here when I get back!"

                "Hey, don't worry!  Bacon-breath and I get along great, don't we, now?"  He pried his finger from between its clenched jaws and tossed the animal into a wall.  "We'll be fine!"

                A minute later, nursing the bruised cheek Akane's fist had left, he sat down opposite the grinning pig and pulled out a thermos of hot water.  He glanced around to make sure there was nobody watching.  "Alright, Ryoga, we hafta talk."

                The pig gave a small nod, and a moment later, a heavily-built young man stood in its stead, still wreathed in wisps of steam as the hot water rolled down his back.  A few years of growth had made him ever bigger, and Ranma noted the muscles rippling as his rival pulled on his usual yellow shirt.  But while growth and further travel had hardened his body, the face remained the same: same shock of black hair, same bandanna, same haunted, naively innocent eyes.  "This better be good, Ranma," he said, as he finished getting dressed.  "It's not you I'm here to see."

                "Yeah, yeah, I know, you're. . . hey, wait a second, you better not be here for Akane!"

                "And what if I am?" answered Ryoga, indifferently.

                "Aw, geez, c'mon, man, I thought we were past all this crap!  You've been with Akari for, what, the last year?  Don't tell me you're _still_ thinking of two-timing her?"

                "I'm not two-timing her!" shouted Ryoga.

                "Then you don't love Akane anymore?"

                "Of course I do!  I swore I'd always love her!  An oath like that, I don't just forget!"

                "Yeah, sure, whatever," said Ranma.  "Listen, you try anything with Akane and I'll kick your ass again, just like last time."

                "Is that right?"  Ryoga smirked, but his eyes were serious.  "Just like that?  Who's the one with the scarred chest?  Sounds like you're the one who's been losing the fights.  A little out of shape, are we?"

                "Sure.  A little," admitted Ranma.  "But my out-of-shape is still a hell of a lot better than your top-of-the-line."

                "Is that so?" he replied, inquisitiveness losing to anger.  "Is that so?  I'll show you, Ranma!  I've been wrestling sumo-pigs for the last year!  Working hard on the farm!  Training in the furthest reaches of Hokkaido!"

                "Lost in the furthest reaches of Hokkaido is more like it," muttered Ranma beneath his breath, and then, louder, "So you _did_ come here to fight me, then."

                "No!" shouted the lost boy.  "I came here to admit the truth of my curse to Akane!"

                "You. . . really?"

                "Yes."  Ryoga suddenly fell quiet, and sat down on the dojo's floor.  With downcast eyes, he continued.  "Things are really good between Akari and me, Ranma.  Really good.  I don't want to lose that.  And yet. . . and yet. . . ."  He looked up, the sudden image of misery, eyes brimming with tears.  "The love I still feel for Akane holds me back!  I have to move on, yet I can't forget her caring smile, her tender arms as she picked me up, that wonderful, sweet first kiss she lay on my snout. . . ."

                Ranma bopped him over the head.

                "So I need to come clean.  Perhaps once she knows the truth about me, Akane will push me away.  Maybe she'll hate me.  I don't like to do it, but if so -- then maybe I'll be able to stop loving her as well."

                "What's this 'as well' crap?" Ranma said.  "Sure, whatever, Ryoga.  Sounds stupid to me, but if it gets you over Akane, great.  You've got my blessing."

                "I don't need your blessing!"

                "But I need you to wait."

                "I don't want to. . . what, wait?"  Ryoga eyed him suspiciously, though, Ranma noticed, with a certain eagerness.  "Why?"

                Perhaps it was the gravity of expression that Ranma took on, or something in his voice, or maybe even the unconscious way in which he began to trace the new scar along his chest; but as Ranma began to explain the events of the previous day, Ryoga listened without interruption or antagonism.  At the end of the story, in which Ranma explained the supposed threat to Akane, Ryoga nodded.

                "What do you want me to do?" he asked, simply.

                "To watch over her.  Protect her if you have to.  Don't get me wrong," added Ranma, "I'll be doing the same.  But I doubt I can be with her every minute of every day.  And when I'm not around to keep her safe, I want somebody who can to be.  You're not as good as me, of course. . . ."

                "Of course," Ryoga said, and smirked, cracking his knuckles.

                "But you're the strongest in these parts.  And as P-chan, you can be with her when I can't."

                "Of course," he said, nodding solemnly.

                "But if I find out you've been peeking on her at night, I'll jab your eyes out!"

                "I'd like to see you. . . Akane!"  He jumped to his feet, Ranma slowly joining him, as Akane returned to the dojo.

                "Ryoga!" she exclaimed upon seeing him.  "It's so good to see you!  It's been too long."

                "I've been very busy on Akari's farm."

                "And, how's. . . hey, wait a second -- Ranma, where's P-chan?"  A menacing tone entered her voice.

                "He's, ah. . . well, he, that is­ -- he took off when he saw Ryoga!  One glance of the guy, and he ran away.  Isn't it strange the way that happens?  Guess he doesn't like him, must be why they're never in the same room together."

                Akane still looked suspicious, until Ryoga unexpectedly added, "It might be the smell of the sumo-pigs on me, Akane.  He's such a small (but tough, smart, and attractive) pig, that he's probably got an instinctive fear of them.  I've been working on the farm so much that the scent tends to cling with me wherever I go."

                "Really?"

                "Really?" mirrored Ranma.  Damn, he thought, that's good. . . .  'Yo, Ryoga,' he whispered aside.  'Where'd you think that one up?'

                'I spent the whole trip here working on it.'

                'I thought you came here to come clean.  Why would you need an excuse?'

                "Shut up, Ranma!"

                "Make me!"

                "Damn straight I will!"

                Ryoga threw the first attack; Ranma blocked and backed off.  And then they both smiled, and with a battle cry that rang loud and clear through the Tendo residence, friend and rival found themselves amidst a flurry of punches and kicks.

                The brief glimpse he had was enough; no, it had been far, far too much.  The girl's body was mangled, mauled, long jagged strips of flesh torn away, entrails bulging out through the gaping flesh.  Blood, far too much of it, sprayed and splattered everywhere, staining the asphalt and alley walls red and black.  Limbs were snapped backwards like twigs, splintered bones poking through skin, and the back twisted wrongly in the loose confines of the shredded school uniform.  Empty eyes stared blankly at the rising sun, and somehow conveyed final moments filled with pain and terror.

                The police were doing an excellent job of concealing the carnage from the public, but they hadn't anticipated observers from above.  From his perch on the roof, Ranma Saotome pulled back, turned away, and silently retched.

                It was the crowd that had attracted him, just as it had three days ago.  People and police, gathered near a narrow alleyway, slightly off the route between his place and the Tendos'.  Unusual activity for this part of Nerima: aside for the martial artists, there were few reasons for law officials to show.  But today they were out in force: cars, an ambulance, blocking the street, controlling the crowd, assuming authority of the area.  Curiosity had brought him closer -- and once there, he had once again encountered Gosunkugi.

                The thin, awkward student had looked even paler than usual.  "Don't bother," he had said, trying to push past.  "There's nothing. . . they've blocked it off. . . you don't want to see."

                "See what?"

                "She's dead," Gosunkugi whispered.  "She's. . . dead."  He had rushed off without another word.

                So Ranma had gone around the side, leapt to the top of the building, worked his way across the roof and back to the sealed alleyway.  And saw the body.  The blood, the bone, the look on her face. . . .  Once his stomach recovered, he huddled up against the cool metal of a rooftop exhaust fan.  Jets of steam coiled above, obscuring the dawn, and he closed his eyes against the bloody image embedded in his mind.

                Who could have done such a thing? he thought, and immediately realized that it wasn't a 'who,' but a 'what'.  Nobody human could have done such a thing to that girl.  He had to admit that there were a few people he knew with the necessary strength: Ryoga, possibly, Lime of the Musk Dynasty, maybe, and certainly Tarou in his monster form -- but none of them were this brutal, none of them were outright killers.  Not of helpless teenage girls.  The person -- the _thing_ that had done this had desecrated the body with the outright savagery of a wild animal.

                Was this the threat of which that man, that Gabriel, had warned against?  If so, then why attack this helpless girl?  The mental image of the girl's body reared up once more, and Ranma suddenly wondered if this was the fate that awaited Akane.  No way, he vowed once again, leaping back to the ground and resuming, at a hurried pace, his way towards the Tendos'.  No way will that happen to Akane.

                "There were even gouges in the concrete," he said, "and they didn't look like a weapon made 'em.  It was strong enough to rip through the wall.  This thing is dangerous, Ryoga, whatever it was."  Ranma glanced once towards the open door of the dojo, through which he could see Akane practising her strikes on the wooden post.  It reassured him that he could see her.  "This thing is dangerous," he repeated, turning his attention back to his rival, "and there's no way we can let it get close to Akane."

                Ryoga nodded, once.  He let out a deep, heavy breath.  He had visibly tightened up during the story's recounting, jaw clenching tighter, thick cords of his neck tensing, and Ranma wondered how vividly his friend had imagined the event.  "Is this what you were afraid of?" he asked.

                "I don't know," answered Ranma.  "I really don't.  Maybe this was a freaky one-shot kinda thing.  Maybe it has nothing to do with Akane, or that book, and the shit that went down last week."

                "Maybe."

                "But we're not going to risk it."

                "No."  

                "Are you going to tell Akane?"

                "No!" Ranma said abruptly, a little too loudly.  "No," he repeated, softer this time, and glanced outside.  "Are you crazy?  She doesn't need to know about this."

                "But, Ranma. . . if she's in danger. . . ."

                "She already knows she's in danger.  That's enough.  We don't even know if this has anything to do with her.  She has enough to worry about as it is.  You know what Akane's like.  If she thinks this has some connection to her, she's likely to run off and try and challenge it to a duel, or something stupid like that.  Well, not this time.  This is serious, and I'm not letting her put herself in -- A-ha, I have you now, Ryoga!"

                "Huh?" Ryoga said.

                Ranma's strong right cross to the chin dropped him.  "Ha ha!  That's what you get for dropping your guard!"

                "Ranma," growled Ryoga, climbing to his feet.  "I'll. . . ."

                "Oh, Akane!" the pigtailed boy exclaimed.  "I didn't see you come in!"

                Akane stood at the threshold of the dojo, dressed in her dogi, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.  She looked very much annoyed.  "Ranma, we need to talk."

                He glanced at Ryoga, who stared blankly back.  "Um, sure, Akane.  Shoot."

                "In private," she said.  "No offense meant, Ryoga."

                The bandanna'd boy shrugged.  "None taken."

                "Don't go anywhere," Ranma said, as Akane grabbed him by the arm and started to drag him from the dojo.  "And don't get lost!  I haven't finished kicking your ass yet!"

                Akane's idea of private turned out to be rather different than Ranma's: a midday stroll through the park.  He felt uncomfortable having her so in the open.  If anything were to attack, how could he properly defend her?  The image of the slaughtered girl from this morning returned.  Unwittingly, he pictured Akane in that same state -- bloodied, gored --  and his stomach churned and his blood raced.  One fist clenched at his side and he again scanned the area.

                "Right, that's it."  Akane's voice, filled with barely restrained impatience, interrupted his search.  She stepped in front of him, and glared up at him with angry eyes.  "Will you stop that!"

                "Um. . . what?"

                "Don't 'what' me!  The hovering!  The paranoia!  You're driving me nuts!"

                "I don't know what you're talking about, Akane," he said, sounding unconvincing to his own ears.  "I ain't been doing nothing!  I'm not trying to drive you to anything -- I've just been putterin' around, that's all!"  He tried a hopeful grin.

                Akane released a very deep, very weary sigh.  "Ranma, I've seen you day and night for the last three days.  I didn't see you this much when you lived with us."

                "Is it so wrong to want to spend some quality time with my fiancee?"

                She boggled at him.  "Excuse me?"

                "The pain!" he exclaimed, clutching at his chest dramatically.  "The distrust!  Here I am, trying to be nice, and. . . ."

                "Oh, shut up," she said, though a hint of a smile appeared.  "You're creeping me out."

                He shrugged and resumed walking, Akane matching his stride.  "I dunno, Akane, I guess I just felt like hanging out more.  With Ryoga around, too, it's kinda like old times.  I've just been in a good mood."

                "That's the first true thing you've said today," she answered.

                "What?"

                She gestured towards a nearby bench, and they took a seat next to a gently burbling stone fountain.  The sun was high overhead, but a soft breeze dulled the edge of the day's heat.  Surrounded by the park's un-blossomed sakura trees, happy shrieks of playful children ringing out, it was easy to believe that today was nothing more than a perfectly normal day.  Ranma wanted no more than to forget the scene from this morning.  He could not let the normalcy stretched before him lull him into a false sense of security, though -- for Akane's sake.

                "See, you're doing it again!"

                "What?" he said, snapping his gaze back to his fiancee.

                "Watching.  Guarding.  Dammit, relax, we're in the middle of a park!  It's a beautiful day."

                "I'm sorry.  Fine.  I'll admit it:  I guess I'm a little worried about what that guy said.  Is that so wrong?"

                She sighed.  "You know, it wouldn't be so annoying if you weren't so obviously enjoying yourself."

                Ranma started.  Enjoying himself?  Here he was, in a near paranoiac panic over her possible well-being, constantly on edge watching out for her safety, and she thought he was -enjoying- it?  "That's the stupidest. . . ."

                "Ranma," she interrupted, "you've been a nearly insufferable jerk for the last six months.  You've been grouchy, and short-tempered, and sulky. . . ."

                "Hey!"

                "You've been annoying and distant and cranky. . . ."

                "Have not!"

                "Have so," she insisted.

                "Yeah, well, you've been, um, an uncute tomboy, yeah."

                She snorted.  "Whatever."

                Ranma jumped to his feet, suddenly caught between anger, insult, and protectiveness.  He glared at her, tried to think of suitable insults, and came up blank.  He wanted to turn his back on her and walk away, but couldn't risk leaving her alone.  He took a step, spun in place once, opened his mouth, closed it, and finally sat down again in a huff.

                "That was interesting."

                "Shut up."

                "You know I'm right."

                "Believe me, I am _not_ enjoying myself right now."

                "Sure.  Ranma, you've been walking around with this -- I don't know, sulking maybe? -- look on your face for months now.  We've barely talked.  And when you did, it was barely civil.  Nothing rude, but like nothing anyone said was of any interest."

                "Hey, I'm not the only one who's been distant, you know," he retorted.  "It's not like you've been all that available.  You've been studying non-stop.  You never have time for anything else anymore."

                "Ranma, we're graduating in a few months!  What do you expect?  I want to get into a good university."

                No, Akane, he thought, a great university.  Which is what you deserve: something better than the crap school I'll be going to, right?  Yet somehow his own thought felt devoid of bitterness.  He wondered why.  Then he wondered why he should feel angry in the first place.  Why should it matter where Akane went?

                "But that's beside the point," Akane continued.  "What I've been trying to say is that you've changed this last week."

                "I've got no idea what you're talkin' about."

                Akane sighed and rolled exasperated eyes to the sky.  He looked at her, smiled, and offered a helpless shrug.  "Sorry."

                For a moment it looked like she had something more to add.  She held his gaze, searchingly, contemplatively, before returning a small smile.  "Oh, forget it.  Let's just go home before you sprain your neck scanning the bushes for assassins."

                "Okay!" he answered happily, springing to his feet.

                "And wipe that smile off your face!"

                It took them over an hour to return home, but as they approached the Tendo residence, Ranma Saotome found that a genuine smile had somehow made its way onto his face.  The day had started well, with the four AM sparring session with his father; but the scene he had stumbled across while returning to the Tendos' had shattered the peace that practice brought.  Then more training, an equally satisfying fight with Ryoga, and then. . . .

                An afternoon with Akane.

                He considered her words as they walked side-by-side along the canal.  Had he really changed in the last week?  Had he really been that insufferable prior to that?  Surely not as bad as Akane suggested, but perhaps there was a certain truth to her exaggeration.  But then, he thought, should even that be of any surprise?

                Everything had changed so quickly after the last visit to China.  After Saffron.  After Akane had almost. . . .  Or perhaps the changes had not been so quick, but drawn out, for the last six months, in retrospect, had felt long and dreary and empty.  Or maybe the changes had been immediate and too consequential to be understood at that time, and in these final months an understanding of some kind had been achieved.  Or maybe. . . .

                Maybe I'm thinkin' about this too much, Ranma told himself, and grinned.  He looked up at Akane, and she glanced down, and his own smile slipped slightly.  Great afternoon, he thought -- too bad I'm currently a girl, though.  He hated the loss in height his transformation wrought; he had never noticed how people respond to differences in height until he lost his own.  Even being a few centimetres shorter made a huge difference when you're used to looking down at people.

                "Hey, it's your own fault," she said, somehow reading his thoughts.  "You didn't have to turn girl."

                "Aw, c'mon, Akane.  Real guys don't do print club!"

                "Whatever," she replied, smiling at his posture but obviously unsympathetic.

                A walk through the park.  A quick stop for a few chili burgers at a convenient Mos Burger, and a drink at the kissaten next to it.  Then, at Akane's insistence and to the detriment of Ranma's wallet, a few rounds of print-club.  He pulled the sheet of picture-stickers out and had to admit, despite himself, that they were worth the discomfort.  Various poses, him and Akane side by side, smiling and blinking and making funny faces and peering through the different cutesy frames she had chosen.  One in particular he liked: the last one taken in a sequence of shots, when they had thought the session over.  He was staring at the camera, looking slightly confused, his feminine brow furrowed with perplexity; but Akane was looking at him, face in profile, cute upturn of the nose highlighted, and in her eye was an enigmatic glint that offset the slight smile of her lips.  She somehow looked both serious yet pleased, and the ambiguous nature of her expression intrigued him.

                Taking advantage of a momentary distraction on Akane's part, he peeled the sticker off and stuck it to the inside of his wallet, then pocketed the sheet of images.  They were nice, he was glad that he had agreed to do them, even if as a woman; and as he walked alongside his fiancee he reflected on how relaxed and enjoyable the last few hours had been. . .

                . . . and then they turned the corner, and the sense of security he had lulled himself into shattered with all the shock and disjointedness of a dream abruptly ended.

                The concrete walls were shattered in places, great gouges ripped out in others.  Asphalt was torn up, cracked and cratered.  One tree was splintered into shards; another cleanly cloven in two.  An intense battle had been fought here, and recently: Akane had seen enough fights in recent years, many within this very district, to recognize the signs.  Not that anyone short of a blind man would mistake the carnage for anything else, but among the wreckage she recognized hints as to who had been involved.  Long, strangely ringed furrows torn into a wall here, the ground there: bonbori marks: Shampoo.  A half-dozen knives imbedded in a mailbox, a giant mace discarded by the street, yo-yos entangling a stone lantern: Mousse.

                She barely had time to register the scene in front of her before Ranma grabbed her in a firm grip by the arm and pulled her forward.  He didn't say anything but kept her close, eyes suddenly intensely sharp.  She could almost _feel_ his awareness stretching out as he absorbed details.

                What happened? Akane almost asked, yet bit back the question upon seeing the expression of utmost seriousness etched into his features.  It looked like nothing more than another fight, a not uncommon occurrence in Nerima despite the recent lull.  So maybe the Chinese contingent of the local chaos had gotten themselves into trouble again: why was Ranma getting so intense?

                "Ranma," she started to say, but then he was yanking her forward, towards a small house whose front wall had been smashed to pieces.

                "Shit!" he exclaimed.  "This way!"

                Only then, following in his wake, did she spot the spattering of blood.

                Across a small blasted yard, clods of earth and grass scattered everywhere.  Stepping across the broken wood and plaster, shattered glass, wrecked furniture, and a single forlorn pink flamingo, into someone's unfortunate house, and then:

                Shampoo, lying face up on the ground, broken shaft of bonbori next to her, the tattered remains of a red dress barely clinging to her supine form.  Red, or another colour stained so, for Akane then noticed the terrible abdominal gash to which Shampoo clutched her hands.  One eye was blackened and swelled shut, and blood trickled from the corner of the Chinese girl's lips.  Her head lolled to one side in near-unconsciousness.

                Mousse, kneeling next to her.  Robes in tatters, upper-body bare and bruised and lacerated.  His blind gaze held equal parts desperation and determination as he cradled Shampoo's head in his arms and sought to keep her awake.  Then the crunch of glass under her foot, and the Chinese boy's eyes snapped up, one hand reaching towards his concealed leg.

                "Easy, Mousse," said Ranma, stepping closer.  "It's us."

                "Ranma?"  The wounded boy reoriented towards the voice.

                "And me," Akane offered.

                Ranma crouched next to his two Chinese friends.  "What the hell happened here?  Who did this?"

                "There's no time," Mousse answered, and shook his head.  "You have to hurry.  The thing -- the thing that did this; Ryoga's still fighting it."  He pointed towards deeper into the house, at a path of wrecked walls and furniture.  "He showed up just in time.  He led it away.  But he won't -- he can't last long against that thing."

                Akane watched as Ranma regained his feet.  He looked down at Mousse and Shampoo, then, to her surprise, at her.  Sudden fierce indecision warred across the feminine features of his face, before resolving into resignation.  "You going to be okay?" he asked.

                Mousse nodded.  "I'm fine.  But I won't leave Shampoo here alone.  I won't let her slip into unconsciousness."

                "Fine."

                Ranma turned back to Akane, grabbed her by the arm again.  "C'mon, Akane, you're staying with me.  We can't let this thing get away."  Before she could say anything, agree, refuse, he was rushing forward, following the trail of wreckage that his rival had pointed out and pulling her along.

                Behind them, Mousse's angry voice called out: "Ranma!  For Shampoo!  Kill it!"

                The path was a disturbingly easy one to follow, Ranma noted.  Out the back of the house, across the back lot, through a stone wall, back into the street: everywhere, displays of intense battle, the wrecked signs of Ryoga and his opponent's passage.  The lost boy had to be moving fast, and had quickly covered a lot of terrain.  That's strange, Ranma thought, that's not Ryoga's usual way of fighting.  He's more of a 'stand-and-pummel' fighter.  Why's he drawing it so far away?

                As he hurried along the trail, he spared a glance at Akane.  He hated to bring her with him into potential danger.  There was little doubt in his mind that this was probably in some way related to her, to what that strange man had warned of.  But he could not risk leaving her behind.  What if this mysterious attacker doubled back?  Neither Shampoo nor Mousse were in any condition to defend her, and if they had both fallen before their attacker, then Akane wouldn't stand a chance.  No, her best chance lay with him: whatever it was, there was no way it was going to get past him.

                Down the street, through a park, over felled telephone poles.  A sudden explosion nearby, and dirt and debris fountained ahead.

                "That's Ryoga!" Akane exclaimed.

                Without replying he gathered her into his arms, ignoring her indignant squawk, and leapt for the site of the blast.  Only when Akane gripped him tighter, pressing herself into his breasts, did he remember his current form.  He almost cursed aloud.  Something like this, he wanted to tackle as a man.  But there was no time. . . .

                He softly landed to surprising quiet.  Immediately absorbed the scenario.  Registered no signs of an enemy.  Saw Ryoga's form lying face down at the edge of the street.  An unknown girl knelt next to him.

                "Ryoga!  Oh no, Ryoga!"  Akane, shrugging free of his hold, rushed towards her fallen friend.

                "Akane, wait!" Ranma yelled, but she ignored him.  He followed after her, senses reaching out, and felt nothing.  No threat.  Nothing.

                The girl at Ryoga's side looked up with imploring, tear-streaked eyes at their approach.  Ranma did not recognize her.  She was slightly taller than his female form, with hair in a style similar to Akane's.  Her clothes were frayed and dirt-stained, and she bore numerous minor scratches, but looked otherwise none the worse for wear.  "You have to help him," she said, swallowing down a sob.  "You have to -- he saved my life -- oh, please, help him!"

                Ranma knelt next to his friend and rival.  He looked even worse off than Shampoo and Mousse had.  His clothes were a wreck, his back a mass of bruises and deep gashes.  A thick, chitinous barb of some kind was impaled in his thigh.  His thick mass of unruly hair clung slickly to his scalp, near his temple, and Ranma knew it wasn't from sweat.

                "Oh, shit," Ranma muttered.  "Shit, Ryoga, are you. . . ?"  He reached out with one tentative hand.

                One strong arm slammed down, and, groaning, the lost boy pushed himself up onto his side.  Shreds of his yellow shirt hung loosely from his neck, and large welts decorated his chest.  His head drew up and slowly focussed on his rescuers.  Ryoga's face was a mess, one eye swelled shut, nose flattened, blood seeping from a cut across his brow.  Akane gasped at the sight.  Something akin to a smile peeked through the boy's swollen cheek and blackened lips.  "Ranma. . . glad you could make it."

                "Ryoga. . . what the hell. . . ?"

                "I almost got it," he said.  "Almost."

                Akane helped Ryoga into a sitting position, wincing as he gasped in pain.  His other arm hung limply, and Ranma guessed it was dislocated at the shoulder.  He had never seen Ryoga in such bad shape.  The guy was a tank.  He didn't go down easy.  And judging from the recent sparring, he was far tougher than before.

                Ryoga turned his good eye onto Ranma.  "You've got to go after it, Ranma."

                "What?"

                "It escaped."  He pointed.  "That way."  Crack in the street, result of the final blasting point technique.  "It's wounded.  You have to finish it off."

                "But. . . you're. . . ."

                "Dammit, Ranma!"  With his only working hand, he grabbed the pigtailed boy by the collar and pulled him down.  "That thing's not after Akane!" he hissed.  "It was after the girl.  This girl -- the other girls!  This has nothing to do with Akane!"

                Ranma stood, his friend's hand falling limply away.  He looked towards the hole in the ground.  It probably led into the sewers.  He wondered what kind of shape the creature was in.  Was it strong enough to. . . .

                "No, please, don't go -- don't go!"  It was the girl, the unknown one that Ryoga had defended, suddenly speaking, her voice shrill.  "Don't leave me alone!  What if it comes back?"

                What if it came back?  How far had it gone?  Was it determined enough to return and try again?  Even if it wasn't after Akane, if she stayed behind, and it returned, she would try to fight it --even after tackling Ryoga, he suspected it was still tougher than her.  What if it doubled back and he was searching for it underground and he wasn't here to stop it when it attacked and it finished off what it had started?  His indecision was brief.  No way he could risk leaving Akane behind, but he wouldn't bring her into the sewers with him.  He shook his head.

                "No," he said.  "I'll get it next time."

                Ryoga glared at him.  "Dammit, Ranma, no!  You have to. . . ."

                "I have to get you to a hospital!  Have to get Mousse and Shampoo help!"

                "Ranma. . . ," growled his rival, struggling to stand, anger and frustration flushing his injured face an ugly red.  "Fine, then.  I'll finish it off myself."

                But Ranma pushed him back down, easily, and grinned.  "Sorry, man.  Can't let you chase that thing into that _cold_, _wet_ sewer.  Besides," and his voice darkened, and his face turned serious and mean, "It's only a delay.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm going to hunt that thing down.  I'm going to find it.  And I'm going to finish what you started."

                The image from this morning reared its head: bloodied, savaged corpse; torn concrete and ground.  No way that's going to happen, he told himself.  Not to Akane, not to any other girls.  It may have been able to defeat Shampoo and Mousse.  Even Ryoga.  Maybe it would even have time to heal.  But you haven't met Ranma Saotome yet, you bastard, he swore, and you'll regret the day you do.

                Only later in the evening was he able to draw together the separate threads of the afternoon and draw a coherent image of what had happened.  A call by Akane had confirmed that, before the arrival of the authorities, Mousse had carried Shampoo back to the Nekohanten, where Cologne was tending to them.  Ryoga, vehemently refusing to be brought to the hospital, was recuperating on Akane's bed; Ranma had to admire the guy's resilience.  The girl introduced herself as Akako Nishin, and at Akane's insistence, was recovering from her ordeal at the Tendos' with a cup of Kasumi's most relaxing tea in hand.  Akako spent most of her time at Ryoga's side, concerned for the man who had saved her life.  Apparently, the worst of the wounds on his back had happened when he shielded her from one of her attacker's more dangerous strikes.

                "I don't know where it came from!" she had said.  "It just attacked out of nowhere and tried to carry me off!"

                Luckily for her, Shampoo and Mousse had been making a late-afternoon ramen delivery.  And lucky for them that Ryoga had taken a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and ended up where he was most needed.  He had not yet had a chance to speak at length with Mousse over the incident, but Ryoga's broken telling proved enough.

                "It's got a bunch of those lining the back of one of its arms," Ryoga had said, pale-faced and gasping for breath, gesturing at the thirty-centimetre barb they had just pulled from his leg.  Slowly a description emerged, of a lanky humanoid creature slightly shorter than Ryoga, stoop-backed and green-skinned.  Long gangly arms lashed out with stunning speed and strength.  "I didn't get a really good look at it," Ryoga admitted.  "And I don't think Shampoo or Mousse did, either.  We were too busy fighting for our lives."  Then he had levelled a very serious look at his friend.  "If you find this thing, Ranma, don't underestimate it.  It's fast, and tough, and strong -- and you're not exactly in top shape right now, either."

                No, maybe not, Ranma agreed, now sitting alone on the roof of the Tendo household, deep in thought.  But I'm getting there.  Morning sparring with his father, and training with Ryoga over the last few days, had done a world of good.  Only now could he recognize how much he had let himself slip in the last six months; the fight against Karadoku had proven that.  He absently rubbed at the scar beneath his shirt.  Then again, that hadn't been an important fight; or maybe he had underestimated the seriousness of the conflict, but it nevertheless paled in comparison to this thing now stalking the streets of Nerima.  He took small comfort that it apparently wasn't searching for Akane.  But why the other girl?

                He glanced down at the newspaper in his lap, and his expression turned grim.  In the fading light of sunset, he could hardly make out the words; he didn't have to: the front page headline reported the death of the girl he had seen that morning.  Her name had been Momoko Ikura, a first year student from Furinkan.  A girl from his own school.  A friend of Akane's.  The article linked her death to a similar killing three days prior: the other police scene he had stumbled across.  And another, yesterday, that he had not known about.  Three girls killed within the space of a few days.  The papers suggested it was the work of a particularly savage serial killer, though the single picture the press had acquired and the subdued descriptions written concealed the full violence of their deaths.  Ranma knew better.  A killer, certainly, but not human.

                The horizon flared a final time in crimson hues as the sun slid from sight.  Soon night would fall fully.  Something had drawn the creature out into the light of day, despite its seeming tendency to strike at night.  Ranma wondered: even wounded, will this thing try again, tonight?

                "Not if I have anything to say about it," he said.  With Akane safe here, I'm free to head out.  I don't know how, but I'll find this thing, and put an end to its killing.

                When Ranma returned inside, he was surprised to find an assembly waiting for him: Akane, their fathers, her sisters, and, more surprisingly, Ukyou as well.

                "Hey, Ranchan, what's up?" she said, though the gravity of her expression belied her casual words.  Ukyou, too, had developed well in the last few years.  Her masculine clothing ill-concealed her full womanhood, and even at school, now, she rarely bothered with the boys' uniform -- although she still refused to wear the girls'.  She had grown in height, too, standing a few centimetres taller than he did even in his male form -- and she took great fun in teasing him about it.  The tension that had lain between them in the immediate aftermath of the failed wedding had not lasted long: their friendship reached too far back, and he found it difficult to remain truly angry with anyone, let alone her.

                Today, she was dressed for combat.  Full bandoleer of spatulas, with the massive version strapped to her back.  She noticed his acknowledgment of her weapons, and pointed at the newspaper rolled in his grasp.  "A girl can't be too careful.  The TV's calling for people to stay in tonight, especially women.  People are getting scared.  They say there's some psycho going about.

                "Then Akane called me. . . ."

                "I thought it might be safer for her here," Akane offered.

                "It's not just some weirdo, is it?" Ukyou asked.

                He shook his head.

                "You going after it?"

                Ranma nodded.

                "I want in," she said.

                He was about to vigorously refuse and insist that he had to do this on his own, when he realized he could use her help after all.  He didn't like to bring his friend into possible danger, but saw no other way.  This thing was apparently after that girl, Akako, now.  Or so he hoped.  For he could see no other way to draw the creature out.  But if they went out tonight, perhaps she would be enough to lure the killer into the open.  Then Ukyou could immediately take the girl to safety. . . and leave the monster to him.

                He didn't like the plan.  He didn't want to put Ukyou, or this helpless girl, at risk.  But what other choice did he have?  "Thank you," he answered, and saw the surprise in her eyes when he agreed.  "I have a plan, and I need your help."  He quickly explained.

                Ukyou nodded.  "You can count on me."

                "But as soon as that thing shows -- if it shows -- you're out of there.  You grab Akako and you run, and leave the fight to me."

                "And if it doesn't show up?"  His father, this time.  Akane had called him and his mother as well; Nodoka was currently with Kasumi in the kitchen.

                "Then we do it again tomorrow night.  We do it again and again and again until we find this thing."

                Genma nodded approvingly, as did Mr. Tendo.  Ukyou loosened her mega-spatula and brought it to bear.  Akako gave a very nervous acquiescence.  And then Akane stepped forward, and before she could even open her mouth, Ranma gave the vehement refusal he had meant for Ukyou.

                "No, Akane!  You are _not_ coming!"

                "You can't tell me what to do," she answered, face flushing with anger.  "I want to help too!  Ukyou can, but I can't?"

                I should have seen this coming, he berated himself.  Of course she would want to help.  But this isn't her fight.  I want her here.  Because if this isn't the danger that Gabriel warned of, I want her safe; and if it is, I don't want her anywhere near it.  But how to explain this to her?  How to tell her this is out of her league?

                Fortunately, he was saved that tricky piece of diplomacy by the timely intervention of her father.  "No, Akane.  I will not have one of my daughters running around at night when a psychotic monster is on the loose."

                "But. . . Dad!  It's my duty as a martial artist. . . ."

                "To protect your home as well.  And to listen to your father.  And your father is telling you that you are _not_ going out tonight."  It was rare that the normally passive Soun Tendo revealed the steel core that had enabled him to survive Happosai's tutelage.  But it most certainly is there, Ranma admitted, the old guy's got a tough edge to him, when he wants to.  I guess you don't get to become a master of Anything Goes without it; and nothing brought out the steel in Mr. Tendo like a threat to his daughter.

                Surprisingly, Akane gave in.  A half-dozen insults and arguments died on his lips as he watched her frown, then nod and step back.  The expression on her face left him feeling. . . worried?  Not that she might sneak after them despite her submission; perhaps it was the ease with which she had backed down that concerned him, or the enigmatic look she revealed before hiding it beneath a thin-lipped frown.  Then he pushed the thought aside.  Right now, he had a monster to catch.

                "Alright then," he said.  "Everybody ready?"

                It took nearly a half-hour for them to actually leave.  Ukyou had a phone call to make to Konatsu. Akako suddenly realized that she ought to call her parents as well; it turned out they were frantically worried about her, and gave her a very thorough, very long berating over the phone.  Ranma gave his farewells to the recovering Ryoga, and asked for any last suggestions.

                "Hit it hard," the wounded boy had offered.  "Again and again and again until it stops moving."

                Most of all, he wanted to say goodbye to Akane, to maybe apologize for not bringing her, or to explain why he couldn't, at the very least; but she seemed to be avoiding him, always leaving a room just as he was entering.

                Now, Ukyou and Akako and he walked the streets in a haphazard pattern, loosely working their way towards the site of the battle earlier today.  They moved stealthily, for the police were out, patrolling the streets, and explaining why they were walking the streets themselves could prove difficult.  The night was unusually dark and overcast, which helped, the few streetlights lining the back roads casting pale light pooling feebly near houses and in street corners.  A strong wind was picking up, blowing detritus in billowing patterns across their path.  The air was heavy, and Ranma suspected rain, if not a stronger storm, was coming.  He offered a silent prayer that the rain would hold off.  He needed to remain a man for tonight.

                At first, Ukyou tried to alleviate the oppressive silence that had settled upon the trio, but her words went unanswered, or sounded shrill against the quiet of the night.  The gravity of the situation soon silenced her.  Perhaps she realizes, Ranma thought, that now isn't the best time for the 'cute-fiancee' angle.  Not when hunting for a monster that had already torn apart three helpless girls.  That had fought off three of the best martial artists in Nerima.

                But not _the_ best, Ranma added.

                They continued to walk, the infrequent random sounds of a suburb at night -- the bark of a dog, the laughter of a television comedy turned up too loud, the passing of a car one street over -- the only interruption to their silence.  Yet worry began to settle in as they moved on, past the scene of today's conflict, past the locations of the earlier killings he had either seen or read of.  Worry that the creature wouldn't show.

                He paused in his steps as he considered it further.  Maybe their enemy was far too wounded to make another attempt tonight, he thought.  Or maybe it's too far away, too far to pick up Akako's trail.  It could be on the other side of Tokyo, for all we know, killing someone else while we're wandering around Nerima.  Only the realization that the other three killings, and the battle today, had been in relatively close proximity to each other, worked to subdue his growing sense of frustration.  But, then. . . what?  How were they going to find this thing?  Maybe it. . . .

                Ranma glanced up, at the figures of Ukyou and Akako ahead of him.  He blinked, momentarily confused.  For a second. . . .  Ukyou, walking, long hair swaying in gentle counterpoint to her steps, her combat spatula resting easily over one shoulder.  Akako walking next to her, wearing some borrowed clothes of Akane's that fit her perfectly; and briefly, he'd thought it had been his fiancee there ahead of him.  The resemblance was minimal, but certainly there: and suddenly he thought he understood, and his heart skipped a beat and dread gripped him.  For a moment he was at a lost, unsure of what to do.

                Ukyou turned back and, called out inquisitively from the dark.  "Hey, Ranchan, you coming?"

                Her voice broke his indecision.  Without further hesitation he ran forward.  "Ukyou -- we're doing this all wrong.  We're. . . it's not here.  It won't show.  I think.  I have to make sure."

                "What?"

                "There's no time.  Take Akako home, I'm sure she's safe, and she'll be safer at home than with us, anyway.  This isn't any place for non-martial artists.  Take her home, Ukyou, than go back to the Tendos; go back as fast as you can!"

                "But, Ranchan!  Ranchan, what's. . . ."

                "Just do it, dammit!" he yelled back, already halfway down the street, speeding up.  "Go!"

                Without another glance back he leapt away, over the houses, sure of his destination and afraid that his sudden suspicion would prove correct.

Oh, please be home, Ranma whispered to himself, banging on the door, please answer.

                And he did, and Ranma let out a deep sigh of relief, much to Gosunkugi's surprise.  Ranma imagined that the pale-faced young man must be quite shocked to see him, indeed: the martial artist did not make it a frequent point to visit.

                "Ranma?" Gosunkugi asked, and gaped.

                The pigtailed teenager realized he must present quite the sight, sweaty, breathing hard, and probably looking both desperate and half-panicked.  Which was close to how he felt.  He had crossed the Nerima rooftop highway at top speed, and made it here in record time.

                "Yeah," Ranma gasped.  "Yeah.  Let me in, I gotta. . . ."

                Gosunkugi let the door swing open, obviously confused but not about to try and stop a desperate-looking Saotome.  "What's wrong?  What. . . come in, what can I. . . ."

                Ranma stepped into the house, looking around but not really caring about the background to his creepy schoolmate's life.  He focussed on the boy.  "Pictures," he said.  "I've gotta see your pictures."

                If possible, Gosunkugi turned even paler.  "Um, my pictures?  Why?  I didn't think you'd be interested."

                "I wasn't.  But you took them early in the morning, right?  And you were at both scenes I was at.  How early do you go out for your pictures, Gosunkugi?  How early did you get to those scenes?"

                The scrawny photographer tried a feeble grin.  "I don't know what you're. . . ."

                "Dammit, Gosunkugi!  I don't give a shit what kinda creepy hobbies you've got, or why you take pictures of dead girls.  I don't _care_!  But Akane's life might be in danger, and. . . ."

                And that was all it took.  The nervousness and hesitation lifted from Gosunkugi's body, and without another word he led Ranma upstairs.  "This is my studio," he explained, as they entered a large, cluttered room.  There was a bed and dressers and the normal accoutrements of a bedroom, but it was the walls that immediately seized one's eye: they were plastered with images and photographs, and among them Ranma recognized a number of Akane.  The majority of them, however, were of other people, in innumerable random poses, seemingly unaware that they were being photographed.

                Then a folder was shoved into his face, snapping his attention away from the photographs and back to the photographer.  "These are the pictures I've taken," Gosunkugi said, pulling sheets of images and scattering them across his bed.  "I only made it to the same two places you did.  I normally head out at four AM, and from what I've seen and read, the girls were killed around that time.

                "Total luck, really, that I made it there before the police did."  He paused as if in thought.  "Also luck that I didn't get there when whoever did this was still around, I guess."

                Ranma was hardly listening, rifling through the images.  He pulled a picture of the slaughtered girl he had seen that morning.  Found another similar to the picture he had seen in the newspaper, but in colour, and closer up.

                "That's one of the ones I sold to the newspaper," Gosunkugi offered, voice tinted with pride.  "But they went for the print that showed less blood."

                Ranma held the pictures side-by-side, of the two different girls.  He conjured up a mental image of Akako, as he had seen her this evening.  And there it was.  Hardly noticeable, but certainly there, if you knew where to look.  The resemblance.  Not to each other.

                To Akane.

                "It's not after Akako at all," he whispered.  "It's after Akane.  It's always been Akane. . . ."

                Gosunkugi started.  "What?  What kind of danger is she in?"

                But Ranma was already gone.

Who knows how this thing tracks? Ranma thought, as he flew across rooftops back towards the Tendo residence.  Who knows what impression they got of her when that book tried to suck her in, or whatever it was trying to do.  Gabriel said things were coming for her; but how would they know where to find her?

                He hardly noticed as, without fanfare, the night sky overhead opened up and a gentle rain began to fall.  There was no time to acknowledge his own change as he raced back to his fiancee.  Dammit, he cursed, why did Gosunkugi have to live so far; why couldn't I have seen it earlier?  I shouldn't have left her alone!

                Maybe, wrapped in the book's embrace, whatever force that had driven the cursed text had received some mental image of its prey: an image of Akane, incomplete, perhaps, but enough to begin a hunt.  But being incomplete, the thing that had attacked Akako this morning, and been driven off by his friends, had been attacking the wrong targets.  All girls, and all of them bearing a slight resemblance to Akane.  Not just physically, though: the other girl had died while wearing the Furinkan girl's school uniform, and had probably met his fiancee more than once.  Perhaps it had some kind of mental imprint of Akane as well -- vague impressions of the girl, of her clothes, of what she liked.

                It doesn't matter, Ranma scowled, whatever trick it used, it's still after Akane, and I'm not there to protect her.  Hell, maybe it hunts by scent, even -- and after fighting Ryoga, it has a solid trail straight back to Akane.  After all the time Ryoga's been spending with her, no one else could offer a clearer lead to its target.  He leapt from a rooftop back onto the streets, nearly two-thirds of the way to the Tendos', and continued to hurry along the ground, desperate race kicking up a spray of water behind him.

                So preoccupied was he on getting back that he didn't notice the attack until it was far too late.

The assembled household started at the sound of the door sliding shut, and turned to watch as Ukyou came in out of the rain.  Even Ryoga had made his way downstairs, still obviously in pain but able to move -- albeit slowly -- on his own.  They all sat surrounded by the oppressive air of ineffectual waiting. 

                "I'm back!" Ukyou announced, flicking water from her hair.

                "Where's my son?" asked Nodoka, concerned.

                "I don't know.  He ran off, yelling at me to bring Akako home, and to get back here."  She loosened her weapon and knelt next to the table, gratefully accepting the cup of hot tea Kasumi offered her.  "Anybody know what's up?"

                Nobody did, and Ukyou shrugged.  "Well, I'm sure Ranchan knows what he's doing."

                "But. . . ," Ranma's mother continued, and bit her lower lip.  "But now he's alone."

                "Maybe," Ukyou said, and grinned.  "Maybe not.  But he can take care of himself.  Your son's a tough boy, Ms. Saotome."

                "But he's not a boy anymore," she said, and gestured towards the increasingly strong rain.  "Now he's my daughter. . . and that thing, it likes girls, doesn't it?"  Eyes wide with concern gazed outside.  "Tonight's no night for a young girl to be outside alone -- and my daughter. . . she's all alone, isn't she?"

Sudden pain lanced through his side, followed by a numbing blow that halted his forward run and sent him crashing into a wall.  The stone shuddered under the impact, then crumbled beneath him, and he slumped to the slick asphalt stunned.  Ranma Saotome stared through the falling rain at the thing that had attacked him.  Man, I'm gonna have to give Ryoga shit, he thought dazedly.  Pig-boy's description was _way_ off.

                It approached slowly, ponderous steps that vibrated the earth and reached up through the rubble in which Ranma lay.  It stood maybe two metres tall despite a slight stoop, thick of body and limb.  Thick, puckered brownish skin glistened in the faint light, rainwater running along the thousands of crevice-like folds crisscrossing its flesh.  Long, straggly black hair hung in oily locks down its chest and back.  With its great size it covered the distance between them quickly, stepping through the ever-strengthening rain.  The first attack had come from the left arm, abnormally long and disproportionately  scrawny; with each step, the long claws of each finger scraped along the street, and Ranma saw his own blood glisten there.  In comparison, the other arm was short and stocky, muscular, with thick stubby fingers.  One blow from that massive fist had sent him sprawling a half-dozen metres, to where he now lay.

                Ranma struggled to his feet.  Sharp-edged rubble dug into his palm as he lifted himself up, and he used the pain to dispel the last of his stupor.  One hand clutched his lacerated side.  His ribs burnt, wet with blood.  Not good, he thought.  Bad way to start a fight.

                It stopped a few metres away and seemed to study him.  Large, dark eyes set too far apart squinted from above a wide, ugly slash of a mouth.

                "You want some?" Ranma yelled at it.  "Huh?  C'mon!  Now it's my turn, you ugly piece of shit!"

                It cocked its head, as if in contemplation, long clawed fingers curling and uncurling.

                "You ain't gonna get her, you hear me?  You ain't never gonna touch her!"

                It took a single step forward; he stepped back, finding awkward footing amidst the remnants of the wall behind him.  In that brief moment with the least purchase, the thing rushed forward.

                Ranma threw himself to one side, and his foe smashed into the concrete wall.  The young martial artist landed roughly on slick grass, shoulder taking the impact, then he twisted and regained his feet.  Just in time to meet the next charge.  A quick sidestep, its side briefly exposed, and Ranma countered.  A half-dozen punches smashing into its ribs; quick dodge as it twisted around, massive fist swiping through the air; back in, flurry of strikes thudding against its hide.  The second arm swept down, this one quicker, and he leapt back.  Its sharp claws tore a triple row of long, narrow furrows in the wet earth.

                I can win this, Ranma thought, dancing back to give himself some room.  Red bangs clung to his face, his clothes hung heavy with water.  Rain dripped into his eyes and he blinked and breathed heavily against the pain in his side.  It's fast, but I'm faster.

                Suddenly it surged out of the darkness and rain, charging him quicker than before.  He flipped back, onto the road; landing, he leapt forward; met its charge with his own, slipping beneath its reaching grasp and slamming a dozen more punches into its stomach.  Stepping past he twisted and attacked its exposed back.

                Too late he saw the thin, whip-like tail, coiled against the beast's rear.  It snapped out as he descended with a kick.  He threw his arms up to block, desperately, and felt the sting as it lashed through his shirt and hit flesh.  His kick connected, but awkwardly, and he faltered; and the tail snapped again and again as he stumbled back.  Pain blossomed as one strike got through, leaving a deep gash above his right eye.  In that brief moment of blindness, blood coursing into his eye, his enemy spun and connected with a punch.  The impact caught him square in the chest, fist nearly as large as his rib cage, lifting him and sending him flying.  He hit the pavement hard, sliding several metres along the rough ground before stopping.

                Even as he recovered, back of his shirt in tatters, he felt and heard the beast barrelling towards him, suddenly emerging from behind the curtain of steadily falling rain.  Claws glinted in the faint light as it reared back to strike.  Ranma twisted aside, shower of sparks as steel-sharp nails tore the asphalt asunder; rolled back as the massive fist slammed into the ground behind him, felt the street shudder and crater with the impact.  He coiled out of his tight roll, leapt forward, ignoring the dull throbbing pain in his chest; slipped past the claw swiping back up, bounced off the fist still imbedded in the ground.  With a savage yell, he slammed his knee into the middle of the thing's face.  It shuddered and staggered back, and before it could recover, Ranma pushed the assault.

                "Kami Hame Ha!" he screamed, both hands tightly grabbing fistfuls of greasy hair.  Braced solidly against his enemy, he kicked down, again, and again, and again, dozens of solid heel thrusts slamming into its sternum within the space of a second.  With the last one he pushed up, knee connecting solidly with its chin; then his other foot shoved off of one massive shoulder and he flipped away, clearing a half-dozen metres before landing amidst a splash of water.  He tossed aside the two giant fistfuls of stringy black hair he had torn from his foe's head in jumping back.

                Ranma's chest heaved as he gasped for breath, once again clutching at his wounded side.  Had any of his attacks been effective?  Striking that thing's hide was worse than punching Ryoga; its skin was rough and gravelly to the touch, and blood flecked his own torn knuckles.  He needed to push the attack; he needed to catch his breath, to reach past the burning pain in his side. . . .

                His opponent reared back, arms thrown wide, and raised its head to the skies.  It howled into the pouring rain, bestial release of anger and frustration, cat-like yowl that set Ranma's flesh crawling.  Then it stopped, and in the deathly silence following its cry, the steady patter of falling rain sounded unnaturally loud.  It lowered its head, and its eyes flared red as it levelled its inhuman gaze at Ranma.

                A moment later, Ranma heard the sound: a car, approaching from behind, headlights cutting a  bright swath through the rain, the source of his enemy's eyes' feline blaze.  Just as he acknowledged the vehicle's approach, the monster charged, massive fist tearing up the street as it drew near.  Ranma jumped back, away and off the street, but even as it ran past it attacked.  The collected earth and pavement scooped up in its paw flew towards him.  He rolled aside and saw it continue its charge -- into the approaching vehicle.

                Ranma chased after it, even as it suddenly loomed into full sight before the car's headlights.  Sudden screech of brakes and tires locking on slick roads, and the car spun and turned aside in a desperate attempt to avoid the thing.  Too late, though, as the monster rammed into the rear of the car, sending it spinning away.  The car crashed sideways into the wall lining the street, and stopped, one headlight beaming askew, and the horn wailing incessantly.  As he approached he heard the shriek of tortured metal, and saw as his opponent ripped a door off the car.  The large slab of metal and glass was sent flying his way, and he leapt forward and beneath it, rolling out and back into a run.  Just in time to see the driver stagger out of the car.

                The man, whoever he was, had enough sense to look back -- and see the thing that had just torn off his door looming over him.  The monster paused for a moment, and then it swung down, claws scything towards the helpless man who screamed and cowered in fear.

                It was the pause that saved him, maybe.  Gave Ranma enough time to leap in front of the attack.  He cried out in pain as he felt claws slash diagonally across his back, even as he shielded the man.

                "What. . . ," the man stuttered.

                "Go!"  Ranma gasped, then fell to the ground on all fours.  "Run!"

                The man needed no urging, scrambling to his feet and running away down the street.  The monster didn't follow.  Before the martial artist could move, he felt the massive hand grab him from behind, fist large enough to reach around his entire chest, wrist-sized fingers griping him and palm tight against his mauled back.  Its strength was stupendous, crushing the breath from him, resisting his efforts to break free.  Suddenly he was suspended in air, as it lifted him up overhead.  Then: dizzying downward rush; sudden impact, as it crushed him into the ground.  He went limp, spots dancing before his eyes.  Again, single-fist tight grip, this time around both legs, and it swung him effortlessly overhead and slammed him into the roof of the car.  Then swung him about and sent him flying a dozen metres, spinning in the air, limbs flailing wildly, further off the road.

                He blacked out on impact; he returned to consciousness seconds later, he hoped, to shuddering vibration as his enemy slowly approached.  He lay amidst branches and splinters, and realized he had hit a tree, and shattered it upon impact.  For a moment he lay insensate, and breathed deeply of the scent of wet grass, new earth, fresh wood, and found the smell exquisite.  One elephantine foot stomped down a mere metre away, jarring him back to his senses.  He rolled onto his back, and even that minor effort drew a deep gasp of pain from him.  Amazingly, nothing was broken, but it hurt -- everything hurt, a deep, resounding ache; and his side remained a pulsing fire as the blood continued to seep into the rain.

                It towered over him and gazed down with black, impassive eyes.  Again, it cocked its head aside, as if in contemplation.  To Ranma's surprise, it spoke:

                "You are not her," it said, in a voice that sounded impossibly normal for such an inhuman creature.  Something like confusion or disappointment underscored the words.  "You are female; her scent is stronger upon you than any other; and you bear her mark.  I have followed you all day, and yet you are not her."

                Ranma stared up at it with impotent fury, struggling to move but finding that his body refused to respond.  "Damn straight I'm not her," he growled.  "I'm as close as you'll ever get to Akane, you bastard!"

                Whether it understood or cared, he didn't know.  It stared down at him for a moment longer, than did something resembling a shrug.  It reared back with viciously long claws.  

                Ranma knew in that moment that it was about to stab down; that if he didn't move he would end up like those other girls, torn apart and slaughtered in some alleyway; and he strove to dodge aside or block with all his might, and even as he moved he knew it was far too late and far to slow, and felt a surreal panic that he'd only felt once before seize his heart. . . .

                And then heard a loud shriek of pain as the beast staggered back, clawing at its own face, dark crimson blossoming from one eye.  A single figure landed next to him, a slight, long-haired silhouette against the night sky.  One hand reached down to assist.

                "Are you okay, Mr. Ranma?" Konatsu asked in his soft, feminine lilt.

                "Listen, Mrs. Saotome," Ukyou said, shuffling in next to the Saotome matriarch.  "Don't worry about your son."

                The older woman still stared outside apprehensively.  The first roll of thunder crashed across the sky; a moment later a finger of lightning touched down and made the horizon flare.  "But, he's all alone. . . ."

                The okonomiyaki cook chuckled.  "I'm tellin' ya, Ranma's more than enough to handle whatever's out there.  But even if he isn't. . . well, I asked a friend to watch over him."

                The relief that passed over Ranma's mother was nearly palpable.  "You did?"

                "Yeah, sure.  He's a ninja, too, really skilful.  I told him to hang back -- Ranchan's pride is a bit touchy at times -- but if things get serious, he'll bail him out."

                "Oh, thank you, dear," Nodoka said.  She turned her eyes back to the falling rain.  She knew her son was a man among men; but now it was raining, and Nodoka couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to her daughter.

                Ranma accepted the offered hand and struggled to his feet.

                "What are you doing here?" he said, loudly, the heavily falling rain now a background roar that seemed nearly deafening.  He wondered if it was really all that loud; he was surprised he could hear anything over the ringing in his head.

                The effeminate ninja quickly scanned him over.  "Ukyou sent me to watch over you.  I'm sorry I stepped in so late."

                "Bah," Ranma said, and coughed, and found his lips flecked with blood.  "Another second, and I woulda. . . ."

                Their enemy stopped its high-pitched keening and mad thrashing.  It turned back towards them.  A single shuriken remained imbedded in one eye, ichorous blood staining half its face black, though the flow itself had ceased.

                "Nice shot," Ranma said.

                "Many thanks."

                "I think you pissed it off."

                "I think you are right.  How are you feeling?" Konatsu asked.  "Can you still fight?"

                "Yeah, sure, no problem," he said, thinking quite the opposite.  Everywhere throbbed with pain, and he began to feel a curious detachment from his own body.  He tore the tattered remains of his shirt off and hastily tied it across his chest, which barely served to conceal his feminine breasts.  At least the bleeding in his side seemed to be slowing.  He tried a hesitant step and found his balance off.  "I just need a minute."

                "I will buy you the time, Mr. Ranma," Konatsu said, and unsheathed one short, curved blade from his back.

                "No lipstick attacks?" Ranma asked.

                "This thing is killing helpless women.  It could hurt Ukyou.  No.  This thing dies tonight."  The look on the pretty ninja's face was nearly cruel, his eyes slitted and cold, and in that moment Ranma remembered what Konatsu truly was.  Beneath the layers of servile behaviour and gentle words, he remained a highly trained and dangerous killer.

                Then the transvestite waiter was gone, charging swiftly across the rain-soaked grass, passage leaving no trace, sword gleaming as he neared the creature in a zig-zag approach.  Ranma watched as his unexpected ally dodged and leapt and twisted around their enemy's wild swings, connecting with quick slashes of his ninjato.  Ranma took a few feeble steps closer to the conflict, feeling his strength returning.

                He soon noted that, despite the ninja's efforts, the beast seemed unaffected.  It was neither slowing nor showing signs of weakening, and Ranma began to wonder how they were going to stop this thing.  Konatsu was quicker than their enemy, and landing many solid blows, but for how long could he keep it up?

                The ninja danced back, nearer to Ranma.  "My strikes do nothing!" he called out.  "The wounds close nearly as quickly as I make them!  What do we do now?"

                Why're you askin' me? Ranma wanted to answer.  'Hit it hard.' Ryoga's words echoed in his mind.  'Again and again and again until it stops moving.'  And maybe that's all there was to it.  Both he and Konatsu used, to a certain degree, a similar style of fighting: speed over toughness, rapidity over strength, dodging and attacking with many small strikes until the enemy went down.  But this new enemy seemed to heal too quickly for that to work.  Maybe this thing needed more of brute-strength approach, a single debilitating blow. . . .

                "I have an idea," he yelled back.  "Keep it busy!  When you see me coming, get the hell out of the way!"

                His ally's only response was to once again charge and engage the enemy.  Ranma did not spare him a second glance, and stopping only to grab a large broken branch from the ground, ran towards the crashed car.  It took longer than it should have to get there; a limp slowed him down, his breathing was ragged, and he found it hard to walk straight.  But finally he made it, and slipped into the driver's seat.

                Ranma didn't have a driver's license.  Genma had allowed him to try the wheel a few times during their travels, when laziness or terrain had required the rental (or theft) of a vehicle.  Now, he hoped it wasn't much more difficult than the few television dramas he had seen made it look.

                The car was still in drive, engine running, windshield cracked, the roof caved in from his earlier impact.  He tried the gas; for a moment, the wheels spun uselessly in the muddy ground, then suddenly grabbed.  The car lurched forward with a scream of metal on stone, as he pulled away from the wall.

                Alright, you bastard, Ranma thought, spinning the car around, let's see how you like this!  He fishtailed wildly across the grass, throwing up a sheet of rain and mud before aiming it towards the monster.   It suddenly appeared ahead in the crazily swaying beam of the broken headlight, the battle with Konatsu having carried it a surprising distance away.  Ranma slammed down on the accelerator with the thick branch he carried, jammed the other end into the seat.  He crouched in his seat, coiled and ready, as the car picked up speed and hurtled forward.  Hurtled forward, faster, adrenaline pumping as his target loomed closer, muscles tense, and he gripped the wheel tight, and suddenly screamed, "Anything-Goes Motor Vehicle Martial Arts Special Attack!" the words tearing themselves free from his throat.  The hulking beast turned towards him.

                The car crashed into the monster and sent it reeling.  The collision sent Ranma flying through the windshield, even as he sprang forward under his own momentum.  "Shariki Mouko Totsu!" he yelled, uncrossing arms that absorbed the impact of breaking through the windshield.  Before he hit his bellowing enemy, he unleashed as massive a chi-blast as his battered body and wounded confidence could muster.

                The momentum of both the car and the Moko Takabisha knocked the creature into and through the stone wall.  It crashed back -- and disappeared from sight, the car following.  Ranma realized why a moment later, as his own flight through the air carried him over the wall: a few metres past, the ground fell away into a twenty-metre drop to the houses below.

                "Oh shit!" he exclaimed, tumbling into darkness.

                Konatsu slid beneath the monster's outstretched arm and left it a metre-long slash from wrist to armpit for its efforts.  Yet even as he danced back, imbedding a trio of throwing stars in its chest, he saw his last strike close and seal up.  Nothing he tried worked, and even as his movements slowed and his escapes became more precarious, his enemy seemed to become more enraged, more powerful.  Where is Ranma? he wondered, and dodged an attack and avoided countering in favour of keeping his distance.  I don't know if I can keep this up much longer.  I've tried to lure it as far away as possible, but. . . .

                Then he noted the light cut through the rain and heard the roar of the engine.  Saw as Ranma, crouched in the driver's seat, spun the car around and pointed it at their enemy; and then the vehicle was speeding straight for them.

                "No!" Konatsu yelled, even as he jumped aside.  "Not this way!  The cliff!  The cliff!"

                Whether or not Ranma heard, and ignored, or simply could not make out the words, Konatsu did not know.  He landed just as the front of the car impacted with the monster amidst a sickening crunch of bone and metal.  Blood geysered from its mouth as it crashed backwards through the wall.  For a moment the ninja thought that would be it, but then Ranma came flying from the car, yelling:

                "Shariki Mouko Totsu!"

                And the added attack sent it flying over the edge.  The car followed, with Ranma close behind.

                "Oh shit!" the young man exclaimed, clawing wildly at the air.

                Without hesitation Konatsu ran forward and leapt from the cliff.  In his wounded state, flailing as he was, Ranma's fall could prove fatal.  Arrow-like, the ninja dove through the air and grabbed the surprised martial artist in his arms; grabbed him and flipped beneath.

                They hit the wet ground at an angle, nearly uncontrolled, and Konatsu absorbed the worst of it.  A sudden sharp pain, and he felt something snap; his leg gave out beneath him and he collapsed, dull impact numbing his side, and Ranma went flying from his grasp.  For a moment he lay there, immobile.  Then he tried to rise and realized that his right ankle was broken, and gasped softly from the pain.

                Ranma rose a few metres away and crawled across the grass to join him.  "Konatsu. . . hey, Konatsu, you okay?"

                Konatsu winced but forced a wry grin.  "I'll live.  But my ankle is broken."  He tried to move his right arm and realized his shoulder was dislocated as well.

                A scream: they turned to see a man and woman run from the house, half-naked.  From inside they heard a fierce bellow of pain and anger.  They had landed outside; apparently both the car and their enemy had gone through the house's roof

                "Hit it hard," Ranma said.  "That's what Ryoga said.  Again and again and again until it stops moving."  He climbed to his feet, face set with determination, somehow pushing back the pain and weariness.  "We can't give that thing enough time to heal."  He took a single step towards the house, another, and another, each pace stronger and firmer than the last.  He glanced back at the ninja.  "Can you make it?" he asked.

                Konatsu nodded and rose as well, weight shifting to his good leg.  "You go," he said.  "I will catch up."  He took a limping step.  "Let us finish this," the ninja said.  "For Ukyou."

                Ranma nodded, and hurried away, and for a moment, uncertain in the rain, it seemed that the young martial artist who looked like a girl answered back, "For Akane."

                The monster was crouching on one knee when he found it.  Blood poured from its eye, from a half-metre shard of metal imbedded in its scalp, from terrible wounds across its body.  The combination of the car hitting it, then landing on it, and Ranma's own blast, had crushed the front of its chest and thick, white bones pierced the brownish hide.  The long, spindly arm hung limply, and three of its steely claws were sheared at the base.  Worst of all, it had somehow impaled itself in crashing through the roof, and a broken wooden beam pierced it through the stomach.  He could see the flesh twist and crawl around the wood, trying to close and heal, but to no avail.  Behind it, the remains of the car lay amidst the wreckage of what had been a kitchen.

                It can't heal something still stuck inside of it, Ranma thought.  That's why its eye is still out, it can't pull out Konatsu's shuriken.  Yet even as he stepped into the room, rain pouring through the hole in the ceiling, he saw it rise fully, the massive damage it had taken slowly healing before his eyes.

                "No way," he whispered, "No way you're getting up again."  He flowed forward.

                It swung its giant fist and hit nothing but air.  It, too, was slowed by its wounds, but at that moment, Ranma felt faster than he had in months.  A savage thrill coursed through his veins.  His strikes were precise and strong, and he felt his opponent shudder with every hit.  It fell back with each kick that cracked bone, roared at each punch that pulped freshly-healed wounds.  The martial artist felt something hovering at the edge of his battle consciousness, something tenuous that danced amidst instinct,

                _glorious suspension between Heaven and Earth_

                and he struck forward, screaming battle cry resonating through his chest, and hurled his body against the monster.  It fell with the impact, crashing hard against the wall, and collapsed.

                "Mr. Ranma, here!" a voice called out, from behind, even as, breath raw and rasping and hot in his chest, he leapt towards his fallen foe.

                He didn't look as he landed on the monster's chest, feet braced against its shoulders, reached back and snagged from the air what Konatsu had thrown his way.  It was light and balanced in his grip, and he twirled it once overhead before gripping it with both fists and slamming it down into his enemy's chest.

                Blood spurted out, spraying him in its ichor, and only then did Ranma realize he had just pierced the monster's chest with Konatsu's blade.  The entire body heaved mightily once, back arcing and thrashing in pain, before crashing back to the ground.  The flesh writhed about the steel of the sword.  Its one eye focussed on the young man still sitting on its chest.

                "Her mark on you is strongest," it said, voice now a wheezing gasp, far too human-sounding for Ranma's tastes.  "And we know you now as well.  Through you we shall have her."

                "You ain't got nothing," Ranma said.

                It twitched one last time, and then was still.  A great sigh escaped from it, and the head lolled to one side, and whatever light that strange, dark eye had held dimmed forever.

                How long did he kneel there, astride the great chest of the felled beast, numb and staring sightlessly down at that ugly, lifeless face?  In the immediate aftermath of his victory, the fire that had carried him in those final moments drained away and left him incredibly weary.  Only when he heard the uneven steps behind him and felt the hand fall softly on his shoulder did he pull his gaze away.  He absently realized he was still grasping Konatsu's sword with both hands.  He forcibly let go and was numbly surprised at how he tight his grip had been, at how his palm ached.

                "You did it," the ninja said.

                I won, Ranma dully repeated to himself.  He stared at the sword piercing the monster's chest.

                With stiff, wooden movements he rose to his feet.  Wordlessly pulled the sword free -- it slid loose with little effort -- and returned it to his ally.  He stumbled and Konatsu was there to catch him.  Supporting each other, they limped towards the exit.  As they stepped outside the rain faltered, lessened, and within seconds stopped.

                "Sure, _now_ it stops raining," Konatsu muttered, for a moment sounding distinctly unfeminine.  Ranma snorted, then chuckled, and finally laughed.  He nearly collapsed from the pain.

                "Aw, shit," he said, and wiped the blood and dirt and water from his mouth.  "Let's get the hell out of here."

                The ticking of the clock sounded absurdly loud in the tense silence in which the assembled people sat.  Akane tried to peel her eyes from the slowly moving hands, but again and again they slid back to the timepiece.  It's so late, she thought, as the minute hand clicked forward another notch, and he's not back yet.  Deep concern gnawed at the pit of her stomach.  Don't worry, she tried to tell herself, he's got Konatsu with him.  He probably hasn't even found anything.  Of course he's okay.

                But then why isn't he back, why hasn't he even called?

                Her anger and frustration with him had been so vivid before he left; her self-loathing at that moment had only accentuated her rage towards him.  To assume she would only be a hindrance in his search; to presume that he could order her to stay behind!  And yet, behind the resulting anger, a certain relief that she was released from the responsibility of actually hunting this killer--for now, she could admit that she had been terribly frightened.  Three girls already dead, in the dark, in some lonely back alley, and she knew that they had not been easy, normal deaths, despite Ranma's efforts to hide the full details from her.

                But she was a martial artist! she berated herself.  It was her duty to confront these horrors in the dark, to overcome her own fears.  Ukyou had not been afraid.  The intense jealousy she had felt at _that_ had only soured her mood further.  Am I really so petty, she thought, to be envious in a situation such as this?

                Now, though, all that was left was a hollow fear that somehow everything had gone horribly wrong, and if the worst had somehow happened to Ranma, her final memories of him would be angry ones; and even as she cursed herself for such melodramatic excess, the worry remained and grew with each passing minute.

                The door slid open and everyone held their collective breaths.  Two figures stepped wearily into the living room.  "I won," Ranma announced.  He flashed a cocky grin before collapsing in a half-naked battered heap on the tatami floor.

                He awoke slowly to bright light and the sounds of chirping birds, dream-images of primal flame and deathly chill fading from mind.  He went to sit and sank back into the soft bed with a groan, and Ranma realized that he was in a great deal of pain.

                "About time you wake up," said a voice, though muted concerned belied the words.  Ranma looked and saw Ryoga sitting against the wall opposite him.

                "What time is it?" he asked, pushing aside the pain and successfully sitting up this time.  After the initial shock of pain, it really wasn't so bad.  But I'm still a girl, he noted, and sighed.  You think somebody would've changed me back.

                "Almost noon.  You've been out for thirteen hours or so."

                "Wow."  His stomach grumbled.  "Guess I needed it."

                Ryoga pulled himself closer.  "Ranma, we've got a problem."

                "Yeah.  I'm hungry.  Big problem."

                "No, you moron.  Bigger.  I had a talk with Konatsu."

                Ranma nodded.  "How is he?  He really saved my ass last night."

                "He's so-so.  Listen, the thing you fought. . . ."

                "Yeah, what was up with that, Mr. P?  You idiot, it wasn't anything like what you described!  I mean, Mousse, I could understand, he's blind, but. . . ."

                "Will you shut up!" Ryoga yelled, turning angry.  "You didn't stop it!"

                The pigtailed martial artist frowned.  "Yes, I did," he said.  "I grabbed Konatsu's sword and I. . . ."  His voice choked for a moment.  "I stopped it."

                "No, no, no," Ryoga insisted.  "Maybe yours.  But not mine.  I'm telling you, I know what I saw.  What I fought was nothing like yours.  Mine was short and green and fast.  And it got away."

                "Well, then. . . maybe it evolved or something, or, like, it's a shapechanger, and knowing I was so much tougher than you guys, changed, or. . . ."

                "Or maybe there's more of these things," Ryoga finished.  His fixed Ranma with dark, serious eyes.  "Maybe there's more of them out there."

                Ranma slumped back into his futon.  "Shit."

                "Exactly."

                "No, man, you don't understand.  This is bad, really really bad.  Right before that thing. . . died, it said something about a 'mark'.  That it could get to Akane through me."

                "Yeah, but it's dead, right?"

                "What about the others?  It said Akane's scent was on me, stronger than anyone else.  It was dying, but still threatened me.  I think it knew its friends would be able to track me as well."

                Ryoga sat back, blood draining from his face.  "But you came. . . ."

                "Straight home, dammit.  I led them straight to her!  There's more of them out there, Ryoga, and now they're coming!"

Continues in

Chapter Three: The Nature of the Beast

***

Chapter Notes:

Akako Nishin: Ranma ought to have clued in.  Her name translates as Aka (red) Ko (girl) Nishin (herring).  She's a red herring!  Isn't Kanji fun?

Kami Hame Ha: Ka(harsh) Mi(increasing) Ha(grip) Me(number) Ha(rip) - Increasingly Harsh Hair Grip and Rip (with the 'number' kanji, misused, referring to the 'kami' (hair) pun).  A somewhat tenuous Dragonball pun.

Shariki Mouko Totsu:  Sha (car) Riki (power) Mou (fierce) ko (tiger) Totsu (strike) - Car-Powered Fierce Tiger Strike.  The 'Totsu' kanji is also used in the word shoutotsu (collision / crash) which is nicely appropriate, I think.


	4. Guilt Made Over

What has gone before:

While visiting university, Ranma came into possession of a strange book.  A man named Karadoku fought him for it.  Ranma lost, and received a scar to his chest for his failure.  The book, however, lay with Akane, who unwittingly ensnared herself in its magic.  Ranma returned in time to save her, but not before a man named Gabriel warned of future dangers.  In the following week, a string of savage murders swept Nerima.  Ryoga, Shampoo, and Mousse managed to accidentally interrupt the latest attempt, but nearly died in doing so.  It became clear the killer was not human.  Ranma sought to end the slaughter, and was attacked.  Only with Konatsu's timely intervention was Ranma able to overcome his enemy.  Recovering from his wounds, however, he realized that there may be more enemies out there--and that he had led them straight to their true goal: Akane.

***                                                                                                                   

The beast slunk through darkness and rot and filth towards safety, leaving a faintly luminous trail of something akin to blood behind it.  Rain sluiced in from grates above, and the occasional muted crack of thunder sounded overhead, echoing eerily along the narrow sewer tunnels.  It waded painfully through murky waters, and the scales of its flesh and spurs of its arms rasped painfully against stone as it stumbled into walls.

            It had a name, a human name, though at this time it lay beyond him.  She knew herself as human, something above a beast, though her appearance and actions belied it.  Even thinking did not come easily, not now, and the great pain and rage she felt made doing so a near impossibility.  Instinct drove her towards safety so that she might rest and lick her wounds and contemplate revenge.  A bestial rumble began deep in her chest.

            They were not to strike during the day: she understood Father's instructions perfectly.  But the Key's presence had been so strong!  Others were closing in upon it as well; the scent of Ryukiko's pathetic brood had been there.  The Key had to be taken, time was of the essence, and the opportunity had presented itself; certainly the risk had been justified!  And though the Key had not been there, the mark of its mortal shell had been on those others--their slaughter would have left a strong sign for the one she sought.  But who could have predicted the resistance?  Children!  Mere human children who fought with skill beyond reason, with enough ferocity to resist even her devouring hate and strength.  Especially that last one, who made the earth explode and struck with the strength of ten.  She would enjoy tearing that one apart later, and devouring his innards.

            'No.  You will not.'

            Nothing but the sound of wind whistling through stone tunnels, and water dripping down.

            She resumed her slow walk.  Nearly there.

            'Forever too far, little twisted one.'

            Undeniably a voice, this time.  The rumble in her chest rose to a growl in the throat, and her lips curled back like a dog's.  There, a presence ahead, stepping from a side passage.  Alone, and all too human, and weak.  Fresh flesh with which to heal quicker.

            "Not so weak," the figure said, approaching, and the dim light cutting down from the holes above seemed to cascade like droplets off the impossibly silver length of its hair.  "Nor shall you heal."  Flame erupted from its hand, painfully bright; flame that swept down in a cleansing arc that burned, briefly and painfully, and left nothing in its wake.

            "Your name was Jun," the figure said, almost sadly, before turning away.

Let the Curtain Fall

by Michael Noakes

An epic fanfiction set in the Ranma 1/2 world of Rumiko Takahashi.

Previous chapters at http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m

            Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;

            Light dies before thine uncreating word:

            Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;

            And universal darkness buries all.

            _The Dunciad_

Act One,

Chapter Three:

Guilt Made Over

Akane Tendo climbed the stairs slowly, careful with the tray she carried and the food it bore, though her thoughts lay elsewhere.  The day was a beautiful one and this was not lost on her: the afternoon breeze carried with it a moist scent of grass and earth, the trilling of birds rang clear through the house; and in the aftermath of the storm everything seemed swept up in an impulse towards renewal.  The oppressive atmosphere of last night's waiting had dissipated like dew after the sun's ascent, and the entire household virtually hummed with relaxed happiness.

            Kasumi's gentle presence followed her throughout the house as she cleaned and spoke softly with Ranma's mother, the two occasionally giggling.  Ukyou and Nabiki argued cheerfully at the table, pitting university economic theories against small-business financial realities.  The two patriarchs swapped happy platitudes and shogi playing pieces and laughed with the ease of old friendship.  It was a day that recollected early times.  It was the day following a great victory by her fiance, signalling an end to a string of terrible killings that had plagued Nerima.

            A great victory, certainly, proving once again beyond a doubt that he was a man among men, as Nodoka put it, despite the fact that her son had been a woman throughout the entire fight.  My hero, Akane thought darkly.  The idiot.  He just had to go at it alone, didn't he?

            How her heart had jumped when she saw him return; and how it fell when he collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor.  For a moment, the briefest of times, she thought him dead; and in that split-second, how unbelievably strong the paralysing grief that had seized her!  Enough that she could only watch as others rushed to his side, Ukyou and Genma arriving almost as soon as he hit the ground, while all Akane could do was stand and gasp with sudden chill, one hand pressed tremulously to her throat.

            Ranma had pulled through, of course, as he always did, despite the tremendous injuries he had taken.  Kasumi had tended them well, cleaning the massive wound in his side and the gouges along his back, washing the fantastic quantity of blood from his body, bandaging him tight and then putting him to rest in the guest room.  Even then, Akane had stayed by his side all night, sitting cross-legged next to the futon and watching him breathe, fists clenching tightly every time it seemed he might falter.  But the tension proved too much and she eventually fell asleep.  She woke that morning in her bed with faint memories of her father having gently carried her there.

            Konatsu had given a very quick accounting of the conflict before Ukyou had taken him away to the hospital.  An inhuman thing that healed impossibly fast possessing fantastic strength: where could it have come from, and why?  I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore, she mused, approaching the room in which Ranma lay.  It won't be hurting anyone ever again.

            She went to enter the room and noted the door was ajar, and heard voices speaking from within: Ranma and Ryoga.  Her name was mentioned, and she paused to listen further.

            "No, man, you don't understand," Ranma was saying, his feminine voice underscored by equal parts of frustration and worry.  "This is bad, really really bad.  Right before that thing. . . died, it said something about a 'mark'.  That it could get to Akane through me."

            "Yeah, but it's dead, right?" Ryoga answered.

            Akane felt a thrill pass through her at the mention of further danger.  That monster had been after her?

            "What about the others?"  Ranma continued.  "It said Akane's scent was on me, stronger than anyone else.  It was dying, but still threatened me.  I think it knew its friends would be able to track me as well."

            "But you came. . . ."

            "Straight home, dammit."  Strong anger marked Ranma's words, and Akane realized it was entirely directed at himself.  Friends? she wondered.  Scent, a mark?  What hadn't he been telling her?  "I led them straight to her!  There's more of them out there, Ryoga, and now they're coming!"

            Akane stifled a gasp.  More coming--more of the things that Ranma had fought last night?  One, on its own, had almost proved too much for both him and Konatsu, fighting together; one, on its own, had successfully fought off Shampoo, Mousse, and Ryoga.  How many of these things were there?

            There was a long pause.  Then Ryoga's voice, sounding suddenly tired.  "What do these things want, anyway?"

            "I don't really know," Ranma answered.  "That weird guy I mentioned before, Gabriel, well, when Akane used that book I found, he said that she 'called' something to her.  That things would wake up and come to get her.  Well, the thing from last night was damn sure a . . . 'thing', and it was looking for a girl.  Akane.  Yours was too, probably.  All the girls that died had, in some way, something in common with Akane.  I think.

            "Way I see it, something tried to grab her through that book.  I stopped it, so now things are trying to do it the hard way.  But these monsters she summoned, they didn't know where she was before, so they grabbed the wrong girls and killed them when they realized their mistake.  But now. . . ."

            The tray nearly fell from her grip but, catching it in time, she knelt and placed the food quietly down with trembling hands.  Oh no, she thought, eyes open wide in horrified disbelief as she backed away.  No, no, no, say it isn't true. . . .  She stumbled against the wall, turned, and fled to her room.  A single thought raced through Akane's mind: It's my fault, it's my fault, I killed them, I killed them!

            "They know where Akane is," Ryoga finished for him.

            "Yup.  That's about it."  Ranma curled his legs beneath him and sat up fully on his futon.  A dull ache throbbed from his side, but it was nothing he could not ignore.  He stretched wide, wiggled his fingers, and felt a brief fire in his back from the wounds there.  Not quite in top shape yet, he thought, still a little sore and stiff, but strangely enough, still better than I've felt in far too long.

            "I wish you wouldn't do that," Ryoga muttered.  His rival looked away, blushing and scowling.  "At least put a top on first!"

            Belatedly realizing he was still female and slightly embarrassed by his little show, he quickly crossed his arms across his jiggling chest.  "Um, sorry 'bout that," he said, grabbing a shirt.  He pulled it on.  "Didn't realize."  As he did up the ties, he looked his friend over.  A day of healing had done him wonders: aside from a scratch above his eye, he seemed fine.  Ranma wondered if Ryoga's leg had healed; the barb he had taken in the thigh had been his worst injury by far.  "You'd think you'd be used to it by now."

            "To what, a naked girl's chest?  What kind of pervert do you think I am?"

            "Hey, I ain't no real girl!  Not like it's the first time I've ever flashed you."

            "That makes it better?  You really don't have any sense of feminine modesty, do you?"

            Ranma scowled.  "No, man, I don't--despite Mom's efforts.  I told ya, I ain't no girl!"

            "Well you look like one, dammit!  So hurry up!"  A few moments later, once the martial artist had covered up, he noticeably relaxed and continued.  "So now what?" Ryoga asked.  "What's the next step?"

            "I dunno.  I really don't," Ranma answered.  He sighed, a deep exhalation of mixed weariness and frustration.  "I don't know what's happening here, Ryoga, no better than anyone else.  It's just. . . ."

            "Yeah?"

            "I can't help but think we've gotten ourselves involved in something big, man, really big."  He fixed Ryoga with a serious gaze.  "Or should I say, I've gotten myself into.  You don't hafta do this, you know that, right?"

            Ryoga snorted.  "Yeah, right.  Akane's life is on the line.  You think I can just go home?"

            A wry smile; Ranma grabbed Ryoga's hand in a tight grip.  "Thanks, man."

            A brief moment; flustered, the larger boy knocked the hand away.  "Hey, I'm doing it for Akane.  Some scaly green guy wants to make a pigtailed ornament out of you, I'll help hold you down."  Nearly imperceptible, an ironic smile of his own crept onto his face.

            They sat there in silence for a little longer, though whether in thought or sudden embarrassment Ranma could not tell.  Finally, with a loud clearing of his throat, Ryoga stood.  "Well," he said, "I should let the others know you're awake."

            "And tell Pop and Mr. Tendo about what's coming, too.  But one sec'," Ranma said, motioning for him to wait.  "Something else happened last night."

            Ryoga looked at him quizzically.  "Konatsu didn't mention anything."

            "I don't think he noticed.  When we left the house, well, for a moment--and I was pretty out of it by then, so who knows--I could've sworn I saw that Gabriel guy, standing by the road.  Watching.  Then it's like he disappeared."  He suddenly shivered.  "But maybe I was seeing things."

            "Maybe."

            "Yeah.  Maybe not.  That's what's bothering me.  There's too much here we don't understand.  I mean, who is this guy?  And those losers from last week, why'd they want the book?  What was that stupid thing, anyway?  And why Akane?"

           "Does it really matter?"  Noting Ranma's expression, he shrugged.  "I mean, really?  Not right now, it doesn't.  Right now, all that matters is that in less than twelve hours, some really strong monsters might be showing up looking for Akane.  And we've got to stop them.  That's all there is to it."

            He was absolutely right, the young martial artist realized.  Those other details could wait until later--could wait until the threat to Akane was stopped.  Maybe then they could go hunting for answers.  Until then, such questions were nothing but unimportant distractions.

            "Hey, you want breakfast?" Ryoga asked, standing by the door.  He picked up a tray of food.  "Somebody left this by the door."  Ranma's stomach grumbled and he reached for lunch.  "I'll go get the others."

            Ranma Saotome sat back in bed and began to methodically eat the food before him, and as he absently munched on an onigiri his thoughts turned to the previous night.  Almost unconsciously he started to analyse the progress of the battle, from the first nearly debilitating surprise attack to the final double-handed sword strike that had ended it all.  Noted the beast's tactics--or relative lack thereof--and his own responses.  Konatsu's timely arrival.  The fall over the cliff.  His own, final flurry. . . .

            Only then did he realize he was trembling, ever so slightly, and he swallowed against a throat suddenly dry.  What's wrong with me? he thought, and took a deep breath.  I won the fight, didn't I?  Again he replayed the fight, comparing his movements at the beginning of the combat to his actions at the end.  Even after that first wound to the side, he had known he could win; or at least, thought that he could.  The speed difference had been so great.  And then his punches and kicks had glanced off without effect, and he had realized that his opponent was adapted to its relative slowness, and maybe immune to his efforts.

            And yet, in those final moments: flowing forward, smooth movements despite his own terrible wounds, attacking with a surety and vigour he had rarely known.  Such power, then: punches, strong enough to shatter stone, pummelling his enemy's flesh to pulp; kicks, able to fell trees, cracking his enemy's bones.  It could heal, quickly, but not fast enough to overcome the grievous damage he had inflicted.  He had attacked it with lethal abandon, and the only thoughts rushing through his mind had been of its death.  Of sword, held overhead, and driven down hard into the monster's chest, hard enough to embed into the concrete below.

            The fact that he had killed it disturbed him, though not greatly.  It had been a monster, after all.  What else could he have done, handed it over to the police?  Yet even while hunting, he had tried to avoid the reality of what he had set out to do; tried to avoid it despite everyone else's demands.  'Kill it!' Mousse had demanded; 'Finish it off,' Ryoga had said; and Konatsu last night had suffered neither illusion nor hesitation as to what had to be done.  Why were they so quick to assume he would, that he even _could_ kill--kill anything, whether monster or man?

            Because you've killed before, he told himself.  You've killed before-- 

            _soul of ice; colder yet chill pressed to heart_

            --and they all know you can do it again.  Why else have they all avoided you these past six months?

            The realization of his own capabilities for killing at that moment struck him like a physical blow, and he shuddered and fell back into the embrace of the futon.  Ranma lay there as if insensate, while his mind turned in upon itself.  These thoughts he had avoided ever since battling Saffron, reawakened by last night's events, could no longer be silenced.  Is this what I have trained for all my life, to kill? he questioned, then pushed it aside as irrelevant.  He had always known the Art's capacity for death; it was his own capacity that had lain dormant.   Is it becoming easier, then?  Yet that too was an evasion: the lethal intensity of purpose that had overcome him at the end of last night's battle had not descended upon him like a shroud, had not been summoned through an effort of will.  Like the battle against the king of Phoenix Mountain, he had suddenly realized what needed to be done to win--and had done it.  If anything, his focus had come nearly too late, and but for Konatsu's arrival, he would likely have died.

            What, then?  He recollected the final minute of last night's combat with the utmost vividness, embracing the wash of visual flashes, rushing sounds, the surprisingly strong scents that all lay on the periphery of sensation as he fought; and sinking into the memory he could feel the thrilling rush of life through body and limb, the pounding of his heart, and he suddenly found himself smiling--and understood.  The joy of relived excitement died with the recognition of that joy.

            "I enjoyed it," he whispered to himself, abruptly sitting up.  Isn't that what really makes a killer, he asked himself, liking it?  But no, he added, and vehemently shook his head though there was no one to see it, that's not true, that's not true.  It's not the killin' I liked.

            It's the fighting.  No, more than that: the perfection of the Art.  Losing myself to it.  In those final moments, when his movements were surest and his strikes strongest, he had approached a singularity of thought and action that he had truly felt only once previously: when he had soared above the ground amidst winds of his own making, resisting the fires of a god with the ice of his own soul and the knowledge of what had to be done.  His greatest opponent had inspired his moment of greatest glory.

            And underscoring that glory had been death.  Had the intensity of true Art come upon him only with the acceptance that he must kill?  Perhaps only then could he truly capture what he so yearned for--had yearned for during the last six months, leading to the confused unwilling distraction of which Akane had only understood a fraction.  The greatest achievement of my life, he realized, and nearly laughed and sobbed with the irony, was rooted in death.  Must I be willing to embrace another's death to embrace my own life?

            The very idea terrified him.  The fight above Phoenix Mountain, the final moments of last night: Ranma considered these to be among the greatest experiences of his life, and he yearned, deeply, with the entirety of his being, to lose himself within such sensations again.  But if it could only be achieved through the necessity of killing. . . .

            No! Ranma thought.  This is insane, I ain't no killer!  I'm thinking about this too much, I'm getting all melodramatic.  That thing was a friggin' monster, it killed three helpless girls and tried to kill me, it was after Akane.  It's not like I could reason with it.  I only did what needed to be done, what I had to do.  

            With these thoughts he quickly and forcefully dispelled the unease of his earlier musings.  'I had to do it,' became a mantra he repeated as he returned to quietly eating the last of his lunch.  He tried not to think, nor to notice the grim satisfaction he took in every brief ache and pain that recalled the events of last night. 

            Genma Saotome was not the first to enter the room in which his son-turned-daughter lay recovering, and so he only caught a brief glimpse of the far-away look in his eyes that was quickly concealed.  The larger man nodded with satisfaction as he stepped through the threshold, thinking, now he's ready.  As he entered the room he noted Akane's absence; more importantly, he noticed Ranma's momentary disappointment upon observing the same.  His lips curved in a smile.

            This became a frown as his wife ran to their son's side, kneeling next to him and pulling the boy into a firm embrace.  "Oh, my son!" she said, and he saw Ranma wince, though more from the overwhelming pride she exuded than from aggravated wounds.  "My manly, manly son!"  She's spoiling the boy, he thought, but refrained from making any comment.  "Are you okay?"

            His son smiled and nodded.  "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine."

            "That strange ninja. . . boy," she said, "told us how bravely you fought.  You gave us quite the scare, the state you were in, when you returned."

            Ranma blushed slightly.  "Yeah, sorry 'bout that."

            "No problem!" Kasumi chimed in, smiling broadly.  "The blood cleaned right out of the tatami!"

            "Er, right," added Nabiki.  "But I suppose congrats are in order," she said, and snapped off a sharp salute.  "Well done, guardian Saotome!  We declare you hero of Nerima, and offer you the Kettle of the City."  She offered up a battered bronze kettle, steam escaping from its spout

            "Thanks, Nabiki," he answered, smiling wryly but accepting the proffered water.  A moment later he shifted back to maleness.  My son, Genma thought, and felt a brief swell of pride.

            "The pleasure's mine.  Now if this heart-warming scene is over, I'm missing the financial report," she said, and wandered off back downstairs.

            "Don't mind her, honey," Ukyou said, taking her place.  "I'm sure young girls across Nerima appreciate what you did for them last night--even if they don't know it was you, that is."  Nodoka's expression, which had darkened slightly at the okonomiyaki chef's approach, positively glowed at her last remark.  Genma sighed.  If the girl was trying to ingratiate herself with his wife, she was succeeding.

            It went on like this for some time, a flow of compliments and inquiries into his son's health, and he watched as Ranma blushed and squirmed under the attention.  Finally the Saotome patriarch, having given the women their time, had enough and pushed his bulk forward, taking an intimidating pose before his son.  He glared down at the boy, arms akimbo.

            "Well?" he asked, in his firmest voice.

            "What?" his son answered, and Genma scowled at the insolence.

            "Where were you this morning?  You missed our training session, boy!"

            "I what?" he exclaimed.  "I lost, like, a litre of blood or somethin' last night!"

            "No excuses!  I thought you were serious about our training!"

            "But-."

            "No buts," Genma said, and roughly threw his son's dogi into his lap.  "Ten minutes.  In the dojo," he said in a voice that would brook no disagreement, and without another word he turned away.  He heard that girl, the okonomiyaki chef, angrily mutter, "Sugar, your dad can be a real asshole at times."  Though there was no one to see, he smiled broadly as he left the room.

            "Police are baffled by the scene revealed after last night's fierce thunderstorm," said the anonymous television announcer.  "Details remain sketchy at this time, as police officers try to draw together a coherent picture of what exactly occurred."  The image on screen changed to a slow scan of a street, torn up in numerous places, and a wrecked house, the tail end of a car sticking out through the roof.  "Mr. Tanaka, the owner of the car, said he nearly crashed into some giant 'beast' standing in the middle of the road."  Now the screen showed a portly, nervous-looking man bearing a number of minor scratches to his face.  "I was just driving along, minding my own business," the man said, "when this _thing_ appeared ahead of me!  I swerved out of the way and hit a wall.  When I got out of my car, it tried to kill me!"  Tanaka got this sudden, far-away look in his eyes.  "But then this beautiful girl with hair like living flame descended from the skies above and saved me!  She must have been some kind of angel!  Or one of those Magical Girls!"

            Nabiki snorted indelicately and almost coughed up a bite of muffin.

           "Soon after," the reporter continued, "someone drove or pushed Mr. Tanaka's car over the cliff's edge, crashing it into the roof of the house below.  Mr. and Ms. Suzuki, already in bed for the night, were shocked awake by the car suddenly falling through their kitchen roof."

            Yeah, I'll bet, Nabiki thought.  But you'd be surprised how quickly you get used to that kind of thing.  "It was terrible!" Ms. Suzuki said, nearly in tears.  "Hiro-chan and I were cuddling, it being a Thursday night, you know, our special night, and. . . ."  The middle Tendo daughter laughed at the beet-faced man cringing in the background.  "There was this sudden loud noise, and then roaring!  Hiro-chan went to investigate--isn't he just _so_ brave--and there was this giant animal standing in our living room, all covered in blood, with a hubcap stuck in its forehead!  And a car in our kitchen!  It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen!"

             Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Nabiki thought, munching on some potato chips.  I've seen worse.

            "What has the police most confused, however," continued the even-toned announcer, "is the body left in the wake of this inexplicable carnage.  One Mr. Takeshi Hirano, prominent Ginza banker, was found dead at the scene.  Despite many grievous wounds to his body, it has been determined that death occurred from internal bleeding caused by a single stab-wound to the chest, by what was likely a sword of some kind."

            Oh my, Nabiki thought, Ranma's not going to like this at all. . . . 

            A half-dozen urgent thoughts and desires passed through the son as he knelt opposite his father in the middle of the wide expanse of the dojo floor, and only through the strongest effort of will was he able to deny the impulse to simply stand up and leave.  Patience, Ranma told himself, though he had very little of it at the best of times, Pop'll get to the point eventually.  His father could be a moron and a cheat and a lazy bastard, but when he was in 'the mood'--and he most certainly seemed to be in it now--then there was no denying nor resisting him.  This was the side of his father few ever saw, the side that devised outrageous but surprisingly effective training techniques; created innovative, if occasionally stupid, fighting styles; this was the side of Genma that was truly 'Teacher'--and damn good at it, too.

            Today, he had sealed the dojo to all outside prying eyes, something he had done only once previously.  Even now, Soun stood fuming outside, but would nevertheless not dare enter.  Ranma understood his father and teacher wanted to pass on something important, and for this reason alone did he wait, stewing in impatience.

            "Ranma," his father suddenly said, startling him back to attention.

            "Yeah, Pop?"

            "Tell me about the fight."

            Ranma shrugged.  "Sure," he said, and began a quick rundown of the night.  His hasty retelling slowed substantially as his father interrupted, asking for an elaboration of several points.  Genma insisted on knowing every step and stage of the combat in exacting detail: every punch, fall, stance that his son had used.

            "Then I reached back," Ranma finished, "and snagged Konatsu's sword from the air, and stabbed it into the monster's chest.  I used both hands, and it went right through, and hit concrete on the other side.  And that was that."

            His father nodded, once, and made a deep rumbling sound suggesting comprehension.  Without a word he stood, turned, and walked several paces away.  Ranma watched from his position on the floor and wondered what was up.

            Suddenly Genma spun in place, stabbing a finger at his son, and his glasses glinted sharply in the afternoon sun.  "Today, I retrain you from the beginning!"

            Ranma sighed.  "Jeez, again?  Think we could skip Jusenkyo this time?"

            "Such arrogance!  Do you not see?  You have learnt nothing!  The final step to mastery of Anything Goes eludes you!  You have failed, Ranma; or perhaps my teachings have failed you.  You have fallen from the path, and today I correct the mistakes of a decade!"

            In the space of a second, Ranma rose from his kneeling position, launched himself across the room, and slammed a flying kick to the side of his father's head.  "Retrain this, you goof!" he said, landing softly, as Genma went sliding across the room.  "Sheesh.  Important shit's happening; I don't got time for this crap."

            "You will _make_ time," his father growled, rising to his feet and looking genuinely angry.  "What I am trying to teach you is more important than anything else you could possibly have to do."

            "There's more of those things coming!" Ranma yelled back.  "Maybe lots of them, and maybe tonight!  We have to prepare--what could be more important than that?"

            "What could be more important?" Genma asked, softly, walking closer.  "What indeed. . . .  You have no idea, boy.  Very well, then.  Answer me one question, and then you may leave."

            "Fine," Ranma said.  "Shoot."

            "Why did you not use the Umisen-ken?"

            "Huh?"  The younger Saotome gave his father a quizzical glance.  "Well, duh, because after that whole thing with Kumon Ryu you made me promise not to.  You wanted the techniques sealed away."

            "Because the styles were dangerous," his father answered.  "Yes.  Innocent people could be hurt.  Yet last night you fought a monster.  An inhuman beast who tried to kill you; who has already killed innocent girls; who is after your fiancee: do you not think that warrants the use of extreme force?"

            "Hey!  I still won, didn't I?"

            "Through luck.  You came this close," Genma said, holding his thumb and forefinger a fraction of a space apart, "to dying.  Once you decided to overwhelm your opponent with sheer force, you should have immediately used the techniques you know are strongest.  You could have torn its heart from its body with your bare hand, shattered its back, severed its limbs. . . ."

            "Shit Pop!" Ranma exclaimed, eyes wide.  "Listen to yourself!  You sound like some kind of psycho!"

            "No, boy," he said, and his eyes were dark, "I sound like someone taking a very serious situation very seriously."

            "But--"

            "No," Genma interrupted.  "This is the final lesson I have to teach you.  The correction of the final flaw in your technique; or perhaps a flaw that lies within the Anything Goes Art itself.  I don't know if you are yet ready to learn what I have to offer.  But as you said, there is little time left.  So now you will sit, and you will listen, and if you are capable, you will learn."

            Ranma knelt, and Genma resumed his position opposite him.  The young martial artist listened with rapt attention as his father and teacher began to speak on the last lesson he would ever pass on to his son.

            The middle Tendo daughter slowly absorbed the details of her surroundings, and in losing herself to the memories the household evoked she felt a momentary pang of sadness.  She was happy at university, of course, and thrived there in a way that Nerima and high school had never allowed her to do; but nevertheless she missed some of her earlier days.

            For most people at Tokyo University, their previous small-town life had been easier and simpler.  Nabiki laughed at the idea.  Life in Nerima had been _anything_ but easy, or simple, and at times she found she greatly missed much of the amusement that the chaos that was Ranma's daily life had afforded her.  University life had its own unique and very enjoyable challenges, but they remained, for her, very mundane and normal challenges.  There was almost no one at school to talk to about these feelings; she rarely spoke of home, for who could understand, or even believe, the fantastic incidents she had experienced, even if only from the periphery?  So even as she quite happily lost herself within her course of studies, or the challenges of her new social circle, or within the even greater challenge that was her new boyfriend, she always remained aware of the insane and humorous world that existed just beyond the walls of her ivory spires.  It was good to come home and reconnect with that, sometimes.

            But classes called and homework insisted that these visits be short.  It was time to say her farewells and return to her dorm and get back to writing her essays.  Her overnight bag was ready by the door.  With a sigh, she slipped it over one shoulder and began to hunt for her family.

            Her sister's fiance stepped into the room, a distant, thoughtful look on his face.  Nabiki grinned.  Ranma, thoughtful?  Not even on his best days.  "Yo, Ranma," she called out, snapping him out of his reverie.  "What's up?"

            "Just thinking," he mumbled back.  He noticed her bag.  "You heading home?"

            "Yeah," she answered, and shrugged.  "Gotta get back to school.  Classes to attend, essays to write, boyfriend to see."  She smirked as she placed emphasis on the last.  "I'm sure you know how it is."

            He nodded but looked like he hadn't heard a word.  "Sure, sounds great.  You can't leave."

            Nabiki allowed the slightest of frowns crease her brow, though she felt more curiosity than anger at his impudence.  "Is that so?  And why would that be?"

            "Because," he answered, and the look he turned on her was dark and serious, and made her shiver unconsciously, "if you step outside of this house, Nabiki, there's a good chance you'll be dead by sunrise."  He turned away abruptly, even as she let her bag drop to the ground.  "I'm sorry, but I need everybody together in the dojo, and quick.  We need to make plans."

            "Plans?" she asked from a mouth suddenly dry.  "For what?"

            "For a siege," he said.

            Ranma Saotome stood anxiously before his fiancee's door and hesitated only momentarily before knocking.  She has to be in here, he thought, slightly annoyed.  I can't find her anywhere else.  Everyone is waiting in the dojo.  This really isn't the time for her to be playing hiding games.

            There was no answer.  He knocked again, and waited, and slowly lost patience as the seconds dragged out.  Finally he tried the door and found it unlocked.  The room was a little dark, the lights out and curtains drawn shut, and the atmosphere within hot and heavy.  Even before his eyes adapted he knew Akane was in the room.  He could tell from the gentle sobbing that came from her bed.  Ranma knew that sound too well, and it never failed to pierce him deeply.  He closed the door behind him.

            "Get out!" Akane hissed at him, "Leave me alone!"  She sat at the foot of her bed, against the wall and with legs drawn to her chest, and as she looked up he could see her cheeks were wet with tears.

            "Akane?" he asked, and stepped closer.

            "Go away," she cried.

            He hesitated and stopped, utterly confused.  What was wrong with her? he thought, while deeper down a voice of irritation added, we don't have time for this.  He angrily quelled the thought.  As his father had insisted, he would make the time.

            "Akane, I. . . ," he stammered, and stopped.  I what? he thought.  I don't know what I'm doing here, I'm no good at this stuff, I've never been good at this stuff.  Guys suck at this.

            She looked at him a moment longer before burying her head once again into her knees, and sobbing loudly.

            "Dammit, Akane, just . . . just wait a 'sec!" he said, and fled.  Out the bedroom, down the stairs, and to the bathroom, nearly running over Nabiki talking on the phone in the process.  A quick splash of cold water, and as his clothes settled around his slighter frame, he hurried back upstairs.  Pausing only long enough to take a deep breath and shake the water from his red bangs, he softly knocked, opened the door, stepped back in, and closed it behind him.

            The youngest Tendo did not even look up as he entered her room for the second time.  Ranma slowly padded over to the bed and sat down near her.  For some reason it was easier to do this as a girl.  Less intimate or something, he thought, or at least more comforting.  Certainly less threatening.  He hoped.  What do I know?  I might be one at times, but I'll never understand girls.  Period aside, they're always cryin' for the weirdest reasons.

            He could see her tense up as the mattress shifted under his weight.  She didn't otherwise move, and though her crying stopped, she didn't say anything.  "C'mon, Akane," he tried, "What's wrong?"  She still refused to respond, and he sighed.  He eyed her critically, almost like an opponent, and tried to think of an approach.  Unfortunately, he admitted to himself, the emotional battlefield was one he had never quite figured out.  "Sheesh, Akane, you can tell me.  It's . . . like, it's only us girls here, right?"

            "You're not a girl, Ranma," Akane said, her voice muffled by her knees.  "You're just a pervert that turns into one.  Go away."

            He swallowed his irritation at the insult and tried again.  "No.  You wanna, I dunno, braid my hair or something?  That's what girls do together, right?  Braid and talk?"

            That, at least, got her to lift her head, and she glared at him with shimmering eyes over the curve of her knees.  "Your hair's already braided.  Leave me alone."

            He flicked his pigtail over one shoulder and undid the binding.  His hair fell in red locks about his neck and ears.  "Oops.  Now somebody's gotta do it up again."

            "Ask your mom," Akane answered, though one corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

            "I guess I could," he said, then released an exaggerated sigh.  "But what about," he started, grabbing a makeup case from her dresser and returning to the bed, "this?  Conservative gu- er, girl that I am, I've never figured this cra- stuff out."  He uncapped a tube of lipstick.  "I mean, like this, whadd'ya do with it?"  He eyed it critically for a moment, then jabbed himself in the forehead.   "Darn.  That's wrong, isn't it?"

            "Hey, that's expensive!"

            "Sorry."  He started to root through the bag, dumping its contents across the bed.  "Wow, you've got a lot of stuff in here.  Wanna show me how to use it?"

            His forced smile turned real as she uncoiled slightly and wiped the back of one hand across her eyes.  She sniffed and reached for a tissue; he passed her the box.  "You're an idiot, you know that?"

            Ranma grinned.  "Sure.  And you're a tomboy."  He became serious.  "Akane, wanna tell me what's wrong?"

            She shook her head but shifted closer, sliding her legs beneath her; Ranma did the same, mirroring her.  "It's. . . ," she started, then frowned.  She pulled out more tissues and then leaned forward, reaching for his forehead.  "You look stupid like that."  He sighed but let her attack the red mark over his eyes, and winced as she rubbed rather too hard.

            "Akane. . . ."

            "Shh," she said, and finished she sat back and eyed him critically.  "All gone."  She smiled slightly, though to Ranma it looked like it concealed a deeper pain beneath.  Then she picked up the tube of lipstick he had dropped, and reached for him with it.

            He reared back, throwing up his hands defensively.  "Hey, whoa, what d'ya think you're doing?"

            "You said you wanted to learn," she said, and pouted--again, to Ranma, it looked forced.  "This is what girls do together, right?  They braid each other's hair, and give each other makeovers."

            "But--"

            "And they talk."

            Which is what I want her to do, he realized, so how can I say no?  He ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach at this little scene he had initiated and which she now wanted to play out to its end.  Why she wants to do it this way, I don't know, and I guess it doesn't really matter.  I gave up trying to understand her a long time ago.

            But he knew her well enough to recognize the pain crippling her, and the desire to share it that hid beneath the pride that wouldn't let her easily do so.  He couldn't refuse her, not when she hurt like this, and so he willed himself to patience, despite the knowledge that everyone else was waiting in the dojo and that potential danger crept closer with each passing minute; he willed himself to patience and pursed his lips as he shifted closer.

            "We're going to make you beautiful." Akane said, "You've got good taste, this colour just so goes with your hair."  Then she added in a more serious voice, "Are you really okay with this?"

            He nodded slightly and waited as she gently traced his lips, and hated every moment of it.  Then she looked him over again, and reached for another tube.  "Some sparkly gloss, too, I think."  Again, he bore it in silence, and waited for her to talk.

            Halfway through, she hesitated, eyes clouding over, and looked away.

            "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked.  "You don't have to stop."

            When she looked back, tears were in her eyes again, and her body shuddered with barely suppressed sobs.  As much as he hated her putting makeup on him, he suddenly realized he hated this a whole lot more.  Don't cry, he wanted to say, but had no idea what was wrong with her. 

            "Ranma. . . ," she said.

            "Ye. . . yeah?"

            "It's all my fault!" she cried out, and then threw herself into his arms, burying her head into his shoulder, scattering tubes and bottles across the bed and onto the floor.  For a second he froze, and then his arms fell around her and held her close, protectively.  He was smaller than her now, and he was acutely aware of the feeling of his own breasts pressed up against hers, and of even the strange taste and waxy feel to his lips, and of every little detail that reminded him that he wasn't a man; and somehow, at this moment, it didn't matter in the least: all that mattered was that his fiancee was crying, and he was there to comfort her.

            She eventually pulled away, still sniffling, though her hands remained in his.  Her eyes slipped away, as if she could not meet his gaze.  "What's your fault?" he asked softly, and when she refused to look at him, he gently turned her head with a finger at her chin.  "Akane, what's wrong?"

            When she could no longer glance away, she locked her eyes with his, and said in a very low voice that quavered slightly, "Everything."

            "What?"

            "The book, the magic, the. . . killing," she said, and her voice choked on the last.  "It's . . . it's all my fault."  She forced her head from his gentle grasp and looked away.  "I'm the one who used that book, and made those monsters come, and because of me three girls are dead.  Because of me our friends got hurt.  Because of me, you . . . you almost died!"

            He could see that fresh tears threatened to overwhelm her, and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and once again forced her to look at him.  "Listen to me, Akane," he said, "That's just dumb.  It is _not_ your fault."  Yet even as he said it, that same impatient voice from earlier suggested otherwise: it _is_ her fault, now isn't it?  After all, she _is_ the one who stole the book, who made those things come after her.  If she had just left well enough alone, maybe nothing would have happened.  Maybe you'd even have a cure.  At the very worst, those guys would have taken the book, and it'd be their problem, not ours.

            But he couldn't say that; more importantly, he couldn't believe it.  But she saw the doubt flicker in his eyes, even if only briefly, and she cringed back.

            "No, Akane, no," he insisted.  "It's not your fault.  If it's anybody's, it's mine, for getting into that stupid fight with Happosai and getting stuck with that stupid book.  If you need to blame somebody, blame me."

            Akane shook her head, and he knew it wasn't going to be that easy.  "No.  No.  I can't hide from this.  You found the book, but I used it, I'm the one who. . . ."

            "Who was used _by_ it," he said.  "Dammit, Akane, it was magic!  We're dealing with stuff we don't understand!  That guy at the fight said the book was dangerous; that Gabriel guy said it 'ensnared' you.  Well, shit, I've had enough poisons and spirits and magic try to take me over to know just how helpless that crap can make you.  Remember those hugging mushrooms of Shampoo's?  The friggin' Love Pills?  How 'bout Pop and those Surikomi eggs?  He did a lot of stuff he regretted later."

            Ranma could see his arguments were working: Akane _wanted_ to be convinced, and why not?  Suddenly thinking oneself responsible for the death of innocent people, who wouldn't want their guilt appeased?  There's no weakness in that, he told himself, in wanting to escape the terrible knowledge of having killed someone.  Who wants to carry that with them for the rest of their life?

            "Are you okay?" Akane asked.

            "I'm fine," he said, and he thought of his conversation with his father and drove away his own nagging concerns.  "It's not me we have to worry about.  It's you."

            "I know.  I overheard you and Ryoga talking.  There's more of these things coming, aren't there?"

            He nodded.  "Maybe tonight.  Everyone's in the dojo, so we can make plans."

            "Sorry I kept people waiting."

            "Don't be," he said, and impulsively squeezed her hand.  She squeezed back, and he could see she had more to add.  "What?"

            "Am I. . . ."  Her voice trailed off, but at his curious expression, she tried again.  "Does this make me a killer?" she asked softly, and her hands trembled in his grasp.

            The question paralleled his own thoughts so closely that he briefly wondered how she could have known his mind, before realizing that it must be a natural question.  This is her first brush with death, he realized.  Not counting her mother, he added, but that was hardly the same thing.  She was involved this time, even if only indirectly, and he could see how terribly frightened she was.  Ranma suddenly felt the veteran, and weary, and wished his first encounter with death had not involved so intimate a connection, so that someone could have convinced him of his own innocence as well.

            "Am I?" she repeated.

            He looked at her, and smiled almost mockingly, though the bitterness was entirely directed within, and said, "No.  You're not, Akane.  Believe me, you're not."  Perhaps the sincerity of his voice, or the absolute conviction of his words, was enough, for she seemed to suddenly relax.  "Trust me, I know," he added.  He had to quickly look away to conceal his own brief pang of self-hatred.

            When he looked back, her expression had softened considerably, and her eyes glimmered, not with tears, but with something he fancied might be understanding.  Again that angry voice, scoffing within: how dare she presume to sympathise with what he felt?  She had never killed, not directly, never shattered a man to icy pieces, never stabbed a sword so hard into an enemy that it cleaved straight through and sank into stone.  She had never felt the heady thrill that accompanied the act, nor the debilitating guilt that followed.  Again he pushed the voice aside, for he refused to nurture that anger: Akane had enough of her own, he could tell, to still deal with.

            "I should go back to the others," he said.  "Everybody's waiting."  She nodded, but when he went to stand up to leave, her grip on his hands did not let go.  He looked at her inquisitively.  "Akane?"

            "Please," she said.  "Don't go.  Not yet.  Just a few more minutes?"  And as he sat back down, glancing anxiously at the thin crack of reddening sunlight he could make out through her curtains, she smiled slightly, and that made it worthwhile.  "Besides," she added.  "I'm not done with your makeup yet.  Can't leave a job half-done, can I?"  She raised one hand to forestall his protest.  "Hey, you started this."

            And then, so soft he barely hear it, she added, "Thank you, Ranma."

            Ryoga wandered listlessly around the dojo, careful to never leave the confines of the four wooden walls.  Nervous tension and impatience were riding high among the gathered members, but nowhere higher, he fancied, than within himself.  He knew what was approaching, had already fought with one--and lost, though he remained convinced that, had he not had to defend that girl, Akako, he could have still pulled a victory.  It was getting late in the afternoon, and no plans, whether to stay and fight or to run, had been made yet.  Where's Ranma, he wondered, what's taking him so long?  Ryoga itched to do something--itched to do anything, to practice, to wander, to talk to Akari, to speak to Akane. . . .

            No, not to Akane, he forcefully reminded himself, not Akane, only Akari.  Those feelings I have for Akane, I can no longer allow to remain inside of me.  That she happens to be the most beautiful, kind, and wonderful woman on Earth is irrelevant.  I already have someone I care very deeply for, and who loves me in return.  It should be easy to forget about Akane, he continued, after all, there's so many reasons _not_ to love her: she only thinks of me as a friend, she only loves me as a pet, she doesn't _know_ that I'm her pet, she's already engaged to a guy she . . . maybe kind of doesn't really hate; a man who rode the winds above a mountain and duelled with a god there, and doused its fire with the ice of his own soul.  Ranma.

            How magnificent that fight had been!  Only then, watching from the cavern's edge as the two had clashed, incandescent spheres of power duelling within the howling cyclone above--only at that time could Ryoga no longer deny the awe he felt at watching his nemesis fight unfettered of concerns for his enemy.  Envy would come later; but on Phoenix Mountain, as Saffron levelled a mountain range and Ranma kept on coming, the lost boy had had no choice but to accept one stark fact: had that been him up there, duelling within those winds, he would have long since been dead; and should Ranma ever come at him with that same degree of seriousness, his chances would be equally as slim.

            Dammit, Ranma! the lost boy swore.  What was I to you in all of the many fights we've shared?  A joke, a toy?  You humiliated me often enough--and saved me often enough as well.  You've taken advantage of me without hesitation--and just as easily forgiven a betrayal and sacrificed yourself to save me.  Laughed at my sense of direction yet helped me when I needed it.  Mocked my curse but kept it a secret.  You're an utter jerk, Ranma, Ryoga thought, but somewhere in all that, you've become my friend.

            And now it's friend-in-need time, right?  Well, I'll stand by you, Ranma, even if I don't like you.  Because we've been through so much together already, and if anyone can maybe understand who I am, understand my depression and our rivalry, it's you.  I guess you'll always get to be the hero, in a way that I never will; whenever it comes to an ending, you'll be the one to strike down the god from the heavens while I throw rocks at him from the sidelines.  But our rivalry isn't over, Ranma, you bastard, my friend: you've pushed me to excel, but I've pushed back just as hard; and maybe someday still, I'll push back so hard that I'll get to be the hero, just once.

            Ranma had heard, hanging around with friends, of the many relationships at school, and the different things people did with each other.  He only listened with half-an-ear, since he told himself he was neither interested nor a pervert; on the other hand, he had never had a real date, nor even a real kiss, and despite his reputation as a local playboy, he sometimes wondered what normal boys and girls did with each other.  A lot of what he heard made him blush, and a lot of it he knew was untrue, just from hearing or by virtue of having a slightly more intimate understanding of the opposite sex than most men; and some of it made him yearn for a date, someday, an ordinary, simple date with a single girl.  An impossibility, of course, since taking only one girl out would incite the others to try and kill him; but one could dream, right?

            He suspected, however, as Akane drew the blusher across his cheekbones, that few boyfriends put up with a full makeover from their girlfriend.  Especially when certain death from the realms beyond approached in the form of many big monsters with really nasty teeth.  Oh, sure, he mused, I've heard of guys letting girls do their toenails, or something, but that didn't really compare; and though it wasn't the first time for him to wear makeup, he felt vaguely ridiculous.

            Yet, as his fiancee focussed on the task, she visibly relaxed, the guilty tension of the day draining away.  Certainly a few minutes, and it hadn't even been ten yet, of indignation was worth that, right?  He surreptitiously licked his lip and felt the strange substance there, and wondered.

            "Hey, I saw that," Akane said.  "Stop it."

            "Akane," he said, patiently.  "You do know that bad things might be coming, right?"

             "Yes," she said.

            "You're not worried?"

            "Terrified.  Now lean forward a bit.  Blink a few times, so your eyelashes rub against the brush.  Be careful, you don't want to poke out an eye."

            "I know how to put on makeup, thanks.  If you're worried, then don't you think--"

            "Why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?" she interrupted.  "If I hadn't listened in on you and Ryoga, I never would have known."

            "And that's a bad thing?" he asked.  "You _wanted_ to spend the day crying in your room?"

            "No, of course not!  The other eye.  But if you had told me everything from the beginning. . . ."

            "You would've just worried more.  Listen, Akane, I didn't really know any of this was going to happen.  Some weirdo tells me death is coming, and I should listen?  I had to make sure.  And you were so busy with studying and exams and trying to get into . . . university, that. . . ."

            "What?"

            "Nothing."

            "Ranma," she growled.  "Don't keep secrets from the girl smearing colours across your eyelids."

            "Akane, what did the book offer you?"

            She started.  "What?"

            "That Gabriel guy said the book got to you because it promised you something you really, really wanted.  Now me, I'm sure it would've been a cure for my curse.  Heck, there was even a mention of Jusenkyo in there, remember?  It probably made that up to get me to keep reading it or something.  So I wonder: what did it offer you, Akane?"

            "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, and snapped her compact case shut.  "Well, all done.  You look fantastic."

            "I'm sure," he said wryly.

            "Let that be a lesson to you.  Next time you hold the truth back from me, I'll pluck your eyebrows too."

            "Fine.  Can I go now?"

            "Of course," she said, and smiled broadly.  "Let's go."

            Where is that jackass? Ukyou wondered for the nth time, levelling a baleful glare through the dojo's door, across the yard, and straight at Akane's window.  How long can it possibly take to drag that girl back here?  What could they possibly be doing?

            The okonomiyaki chef, however, did not like that line of thought, and therefore curtailed it.  Lately, she avoided thinking about many things concerning her fiance, or of a future including him in her life that seemed increasingly unlikely as time passed by.  She tried to deny it, but a year did a lot to drive the inevitable home; and while she refused to ever give up, Ukyou had begun to doubt even her own drive towards capturing her childhood sweetheart.  When she thought of losing the fiancee war, the emotions that welled up within disturbed her greatly: for the very lack of depth to her feelings suggested that something fundamental had changed.  Certainly, the thought of losing Ranma brought feelings of disappointment, and anger, and sadness--but where was the savage intensity of before, that drove her to violent outbursts at the least sign of possible affection between Ranma and any of her rivals?  Where was that impetus that led her to delve into the Dark Side of her Art and to cook up evil explosive okonomiyaki that helped destroy a wedding?

            The wedding.  Now _there_ had been a mistake, Ukyou mused, both in trying to get those two together, and for the rest of us to try and stop it.  Ranma certainly hadn't been very happy about losing his chance at a cure, which was why (she was sure) she saw so little of him in the days afterwards.  Not only did I piss _him_ off, but I got on his mom's bad side as well!

            Surprisingly, that distancing from Ranma's mother disturbed Ukyou deeply.  They had gotten along quite well, before, and Nodoka had been a not-infrequent visitor at the Ucchan's.  The chef would not deny that her intentions in approaching the Saotome matriarch had been at first less than altruistic: after all, how better to get closer to her love than through his mother?  But over time, something akin to a genuine friendship had formed.  The woman was completely batty, Ukyou admitted, but nevertheless a wonderfully warm, caring, and interesting woman.  Conversations that had been completely centred around Ranma gradually migrated to other topics: first, okonomiyaki, and then . . . the world.

            That ended with the wedding.  Nodoka no longer visited the restaurant, and in their few encounters, her withdrawn manner had been, in comparison to her earlier friendliness, positively chilling.  Ukyou mourned that loss of what had been the closest, perhaps, to a mother she had ever known--and she was determined to regain that closeness again.  So she turned back towards the woman, doing what she could to avoid the fat man standing next to her, and tried to strike up a conversation once again.

            Just then Ranma entered the dojo, Akane trailing a few steps behind.

            Ranma stood before his collected friends and family with anticipation and concern sitting like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach.  So much time lost already, he thought, it'll be dark soon.  Speaking with his father, helping Akane get over her guilt: he refused to consider this wasted time, but it had used up a lot of the late afternoon, and if his fears were right, their enemy could be here at any time.  If they even attacked tonight.  Of course, the meeting would have started even faster if everyone had not burst into laughter the moment he walked into the dojo.  Stupid makeover, stupid Akane, he grumbled.  Trust the tomboy to suck at every other feminine skill except this one.  Why do I have to be so damn beautiful?  A few people hadn't laughed, though their reaction hadn't been any better: his father had flushed red with anger, and his mother had offered up a proud, if hesitant, compliment.

            But a veneer of seriousness finally returned, and taking a deep breath, Ranma started over.  "Right.  Let's try this again.  As I was saying," he started, and then shifted into a quick retelling of the relevant details of last night, adding his own theory as to their enemy's--or quite possibly enemies'--motivation.  Ranma noted that Akane paled slightly as he explained, but also saw the hard glint of determination in her eyes that held the guilt back.  Good girl, he thought, before turning his attention back to his speech.

            "So that's where we stand," he said.  "We've got more of these things coming this way.  Maybe even tonight.  If they're anything like the one I fought--and judging by the one Ryoga met yesterday, they probably are--then these bastards are tough.  They're only after Akane, but they don't seem to mind taking out anybody else that gets in their way.

            "So: what do we do?  Do we stay and fight?  Or do we make a strategic re. . . ."

            "Sounds good to me," Genma said, hefting his backpack over his shoulders and making a quick beeline for the door.  "Running sounds _very_ good to me."

            "SA-O-TO-ME!" growled a very angry Soun Tendo, stepping in front of his lifelong friend and looming threateningly over him.  "Where do you think you're going?"

            "Um, somewhere very, very far away, where it's safe?"

            "My daughter's life is in mortal danger from minions of evil, and you want to RUN AWAY?"

            "You could all come with me?" added Genma, meekly.

            "Right," said Soun, hefting his own pack.  "Pack your bags, girls, we're going on vacation."

            "Dad!" yelled Akane.

            ". . . treat," Ranma finished, and sighed.  "The problem with retreating," he continued, "is, of course, that these things can track us.  Wherever we go, they'll probably follow--if they haven't already found and surrounded us.  After all, I think they like nighttime, but Ryoga's didn't seem to mind jumping into the sunlight."

            "Of course," Genma said, dropping his load, "staying and fortifying. . . ."

            "Might not be such a bad idea," finished Soun, kicking his bag aside.

            "That's what I thought," Ranma said, shaking his head.  "Personally, I think staying's the better idea.  Fight them on the ground we know, or whatever.  At least they won't be able to surprise us."  He unconsciously rubbed his injured side.

            "Um, yeah, sure, sounds great," said Nabiki, raising her hand.  "Except in all the ways that it doesn't.  Like, hello?  Non-combatant here.  Non-martial-artist type, right?  I've got essays to write, and I'd rather not have to ask for an extension due to an unforeseen case of being dead.  Know what I mean?"  She gestured at her older sister and Ranma's mother.  "I'm sure they'll back me up on this."

            "It's a martial artist's wife's duty to stand by her husband in the face of certain death," said Nodoka, nodding sagely.

            "Oh, I'm sure everything will turn out just fine," added Kasumi.

            "Great," Nabiki groaned, slapping a palm to her forehead.  "I'm doomed."

            Ranma spared an anxious glance towards Akane, looking away before she noticed.  "I know what you mean, Nabiki, and I ain't happy about it either.  But if you leave, I think there's a good chance one of them might follow you home--the thing last night kept going on about scents, and let's face it, there's probably enough Akane on you after spending the night."

            "You just _had_ to hug me, didn't you, sis?" Nabiki said, throwing an evil glare her sister's way.  The middle sister pulled away from the group to glower in a corner, muttering all the way:  "Yes, professor, I know I'm late with my essay, it's just been kinda hard to write ever since that demon my sister summoned up bit off both my arms.  But don't worry, I'm learning to type with my toes. . . ."

            "This means we'll have to protect the non-fighters, as well as ourselves," Ranma continued, while throwing a significant look towards Ryoga.  His friend gave a small nod as his eyes darted towards Akane.  "And considering how tough just one of these things was . . . it's not going to be easy."

            "It's going to be a hell of a lot harder than that," said Pop, frowning.

            "Yeah, I know."

            "Mark my words, boy.  There won't be any leeway for mistakes.  We've stumbled into something very serious here, and somebody could very well end up badly hurt.  Even dead."

            "I know," Ranma repeated, but this time he gulped nervously.

            "This means going all out."  Ranma found himself fixed by his father's sharp, dark gaze.  "No holding back."

            The young martial artist slowly gave a single, reluctant nod.  "I understand."

            "Good."

            Outside, the setting sun touched the horizon.  In the light's heavy red hues, the clouds seemed ignited and streaked like blood across the firmament; and the sky's violent excess spilled across the silhouetted cityscape that lay beyond the dojo's walls.  For a moment he felt isolated, as if on an island, and everywhere that lay beyond this house became dark and hostile.  How many of these things were out there, how strong would they be?  Ranma shivered and felt suddenly afraid, and berated himself for such weak feelings.  But if an attack was coming tonight, it wouldn't be long now.

            The others were huddled together, talking quickly, exchange ideas, glancing nervously towards the window, the closed door, each other.  Ukyou wanted to start cooking attack-food as soon as possible; Genma and Soun were sifting through the dojo's collection of weaponry and armour; Nabiki was grumbling in the corner, levelling nasty glares at anyone who dared look her way.  A hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned away from the crimson view outside.  Akane looked down at him with large brown eyes filled with concern.

            "Are you okay?" she asked.

            He looked outside and watched as the heavy sun sank lower, and sighed.  "Yeah."

            "What do we do first?"

            "We--"

            Just then, he snapped to attention at a flicker on the periphery of his vision.  Something outside.  Eyes narrowing, he focussed on the suspect area.  The stretch of the wall surrounding the Tendo Residence, just beyond the large tree that grew next to the pond behind the house.  Early blooming decorated the bare, craggy branches green and brown, and the glassy crimson-tinted water of the pool rippled with the unseen movement of carp beneath the surface.  Perfectly normal.  And silent.  Even the wind seemed stilled, and nothing could be heard from outside.  Amidst this eerie silence, an oppressive sensation of being watched descended upon Ranma: as if he were a specimen beneath some unseen lens, exposed and vulnerable and completely helpless.  There's something out there, he thought, and shivered.  I can't see it, but it's out there and watching us even as we get ready.  People are asking me what to do, but how the hell should I know?  I fight, I don't plan, but somehow everyone's expecting me to lead 'em or something. . . .

            He turned back to his fiancee.

            "Ranma?" 

            "What do we do?" he said, and swallowed nervously.  "We call for help."

            The phone rang many, many times before finally being picked up.

            "I'm sorry, but the Nekohanten is closed for business today," a woman's voice said tersely, and then hung up.  The next time, the phone was answered much more quickly.

            "I'm sorry, but--"

            "Old Ghoul!  Waitasec, don't hang up," said Ranma.

            There was a brief pause, then the Amazon matriarch's voice, sounding tired, a little angry, and just a touch sarcastic.  "Oh, well, Son-in-law.  How nice of you to call."

            "We've. . . ."

            "My, it certainly has been a long time, hasn't it?  I suppose you're calling out of concern for my great-granddaughter.  How very touching.  Calling a full day after she was very nearly mortally wounded shows a great deal of care."

             "Hey, I--"

            "Between the concussion and the blood loss--"

            "Dammit, Old Ghoul, I don't got time for this!  You know I don't wanna be talking to you.  You think I'd be doing this if I wasn't desperate?  We're in a deep load of shit!"

            Another brief silence on the other end of the line, during which Ranma quivered with impatience.  "Explain," the older woman said.

            "The thing that attacked Shampoo and Mousse; last night I hunted for it.  I didn't find it, but something else like it found me.  We fought, I won.  But there's more of them.  They're after Akane.  Or anyone who's had contact with her, or even looks like her.  I think.  Now they know where she is--where we all are.  And they're here, Cologne . . . these friggin' monsters are here, right outside our walls!"

            "And they haven't attacked yet?" asked the old woman, her voice now utterly serious, the earlier annoyance dropping away.

            "No.  But I felt something watching us a few minutes ago."  He shivered again, convinced that his impulse had been correct.  "I don't know why they haven't attacked yet, but they could at any second.  We need reinforcements!"  A touch of desperation entered his voice, and while he detested the weakness of it--especially before Cologne--he could not deny the honesty of it.  "We . . . dammit, _I_ need your help, Cologne.  We're over our heads here; way over our heads."

            There was no longer any hesitation in her response.  "We will be there as quickly as possible."

            The relief he felt was nearly palpable, and showed in his voice.  "Thanks."  He suddenly thought of the thing lurking beyond the walls.  "Except . . . how will you get in?"

            "A very good question," the Amazon answered dryly.  "Although. . . ."

            Just then Ranma felt a foreign presence approaching.  He heard the front door slam open.  Everyone was indoors, preparing, keeping watch, and since the phone lay just beyond the entrance, he was guarding the most obvious way in.  It's beginning, he thought, mixed sensations of dread and eager anticipation sweeping through him, and as the phone dropped from his hand he turned towards the door.

            "Son-in-law?" rang faintly from the receiver.

            "Who's first?" Ranma growled, as heavy steps left the entrance.  His opponent stepped into view.  Sudden intense fear and loathing gripped Ranma.

            "Pig-tailed girl!" exclaimed Tatewaki Kuno, rushing forward to grab him in a tight embrace.  "My heavenly beauty, my vision of eternal radiant beauty, how I have missed thee, how I have yearned for thee, how. . . ."  He paused in mid-appreciation and blinked.  "Are you wearing makeup?"

            The pig-tailed girl sighed and nodded.

            "Oh, glorious day!  That thou has finally embraced thy true feminine nature, 'tis a. . . ."

            "'Feminine nature' this, bub," Ranma muttered in disgust, and floored the older kendoist with a quick clout to the head.  "Put a sock in it."

            "Son-in-law?"

            He picked up the receiver, even as Kuno picked himself up off the floor.  "One 'sec, 'kay?  It may be easier than we thought for you to get in."  Covering the mouthpiece, Ranma called out loudly.  "Hey, somebody order a moron on a stick?  We just had one delivered."

            "That'll be mine," Nabiki said, coming down the stairs.  "Yo, Kuno-baby.  Glad you could make it."

            "Greetings," the new arrival said, waving feebly with one hand while clutching his head with the other.  "I received your call and came as quickly as possible."  The look he cast Ranma's way was pained.  "That hurt, you know."

            "Aw, man," the pigtailed girl sighed, "Nabiki, can you take care of him?  I've got the Ghoul on the line."  He returned his attention to the phone as the Tendo sister led her university peer away.  "Sorry 'bout that," he said.

            "I gather that getting in won't be so difficult, then?"

            "I guess not," he answered.  "Kuno seems to have just walked in.  I don't understand."

            "Whatever the reason," said Cologne, "we will be over within minutes."

            "Thanks," said Ranma, and hung up the phone.

            Nabiki sat in the living room across from Kuno and watched the bustle of preparation.  Ranma's belief that something lurked beyond the wall had only served to increase the hectic energy within the room, and while the middle sister wasn't convinced anybody was accomplishing anything of much use, everyone certainly seemed busy.  As for her, she was explaining the situation to Tatewaki.

            Whether by fate or by chance, he had ended up at Tokyo University in business studies as well, surprising both her and the rest of the Furinkan high school population; who would've thought that behind that moron exterior there had also been a keen academic mind?  At first Nabiki had been annoyed that the boy had trailed after her to Tokyo--she had been hoping for a clean break from the looniness of her past--but eventually came to appreciate his presence.  He was maybe the only one of her circle of friends at university who could understand the uniqueness of her Nerima days, and he seemed to share the same sardonic view of their peers' concept of stress.  Stress wasn't a fifteen-page paper due the next day when you hadn't started yet: stress was having a fifty-kilogram phoenix sitting on your head.  Though she had scorned him at first, she now saw him several times a week, and they shared a dinner together (his treat, of course) most every Friday night.

            Even more surprisingly, a year at university seemed to have done him a world of good.  Away from the crazy house that had been his home, away from his Hawaii-obsessed father and lunatic sister and her rather suspect cuisine, his demeanour had improved no end.  He even spoke normally most of the time, with only the occasional burst of poetry escaping.  Sure, Nabiki admitted, he still thought himself a modern-day samurai, but at least it was _modern_ day; he gave up living in some fantastical pre-Meiji period of his own invention somewhere during his first semester of school.  Nothing showed this better than his current clothing: gone was the martial garb, and instead he wore a rather fashionable, very expensive, and, Nabiki had to admit, very good-looking casual shirt and trouser set.

            "So, foul creatures seek to do the fair Akane harm?" he asked.  "Then I had best change into my warrior's garb.  'Tis a good thing I brought my hakama!"

            Of course, Nabiki sighed, he still slipped up occasionally.

            As Kuno stepped off to the bathroom, she glanced down at the newspaper she held folded in her lap.  She knew what the front page story was without looking: an article about the surprise slaying of one Takeshi Hirano, Ginza banker.  Killed in the same way that Ranma had put down the beast of last night.  Could they be one and the same?  Nabiki had little doubt; if a fat man could turn into a fatter panda, then why couldn't a philanthropist banker turn into a vicious, hulking monster?

            The dilemma that twisted within her mind was, rather, what to do with the information.  No one else had seen the news report on television, nor read the newspaper--and she wasn't about to let anyone else see it now.  Should she let Ranma know that the monsters coming were possibly all transformed people, with jobs and families and household pets?

            Should she?  Yes, she told herself, I should.  That would be the morally right thing to do.  The very thing they droned on about back at school.  But will I?

            No.

            For she had every intention of coming through this mess alive, with her family intact, and if that meant keeping the truth secret from Ranma--a truth that could only serve to confuse him, to make him hesitate--then so be it.  Her conscience could deal with those unknown people's demise.  Rather their blood on her hands, than her own family's.

            Ranma had just finished explaining the latest of many needed preparations to Kasumi when the Chinese reinforcements arrived.  As the eldest Tendo sister headed off to her bedroom, carrying several boxes of foodstuff and other sundry items--he shuddered at the very thought of them--he returned to the entrance to greet them.

            "Son-in-law," Cologne said in way of greeting.  She looked the very same as she had at their last encounter: old, dangerous, ugly, and very cunning.  She balanced atop her battered walking stick and somehow made it seem more stable than the floor he stood on.  Behind her stood Shampoo and Mousse.

            The long-haired boy looked the same as always, thick glasses set atop his brow, his arms folded into the voluminous sleeves of his robes.  Compared to the bonbori- and sword-carrying Shampoo standing next to him, he appeared unarmed, but Ranma knew by now just how deceptive that was.  Judging by their last little tangle a few months back, the master of hidden weapons was better at his trade than ever before.  Mousse nodded once in silence, and his countenance was grave.

            Shampoo, standing a step behind her great grandmother, appeared far from her usual dynamic self.  She was in obvious pain, though her only concession to it was a tight pursing of her lips.  The superficial damage of yesterday had healed, but her stomach was still giving her great difficulty, and her head remained swathed in bandages.  Cologne's Chinese medicines had obviously done a great deal of good, but the wounds that the beast had given her had been severe.  But the very hard, very cold glint to her eyes spoke volumes: no wound would keep her from exacting a harsh revenge.

            "Old . . . Cologne," he said, and bowed deeply.  "Thank you for coming."

            "Bah, enough of that," she said, hopping past.  "You don't carry respect well.  Now, explain to me exactly what is going on here, and why something tried to kill my great-granddaughter yesterday."

            "Sure," he said, leading her to the living room.  Quickly, sparing extraneous details, he filled Cologne, Shampoo, and Mousse in on what was happening.  Once he was finished, he sat back, and shrugged.  "That's about it, really.  I know it's not much, but. . . well, do ya know what's goin' on?"

            The Amazon matriarch laughed.  "It never fails to amaze me, the naivety of youth, and what knowledge people seem to assume I have.  I have lived a very long time, and seen many things beyond your imagining," she said, "but the greatest lesson of all I have experienced is that there will forever be far more that remains beyond my understanding."

            Ranma puzzled that over for a moment before saying, "So you don't know nothin'?"

            "You told me a big monster attacked you last night.  What kind of conclusion do you want me to draw: that it had a predilection for arrogant, bull-headed boys who change into girls?"

            "Thanks."

            "However, these enemies of yours, they are skilled.  Entering this house felt like stepping into the lions' den.  You were right: something lies lurking beyond those walls.  How many, I could not tell, for their presence was concealed very well."

            "But that's what I don't get!" said Ranma.  "If they're already out there, why not attack?  Why let more people in?  Are they waiting for reinforcements of their own?"

            "Or maybe," added Cologne, "they simply want to put an end to all this tonight.  Eliminate everyone associated with these events with a single strike.  No need to hunt loose threads down, when you've already done an admirable job of bringing everyone together."

            "You mean they _wanted_ me to. . . ?"

            "So I assume," Cologne said, and nodded.  "However, we can only hope that they have overestimated themselves in their arrogance."  Her eyes narrowed.  "For on this night, they shall learn what it entails to attack a sister of the Joketsuzoku."  At her side, Shampoo smiled cruelly, and Mousse's glasses gleamed in the electric light that kept the night at bay.  "And now, Son-in-law," Cologne continued, "how about showing me these preparations you have made."

            Akane sat in the central room of her home, and though she tried to maintain an appearance of calm composure, her heart was aflutter with nervous anticipation and excitement.  Twisting beneath that was a gnawing sense of guilt: after all, everyone had come together because of her inadvertent actions, and though they now fought to defend their own lives as well, she was the true goal of their unknown enemies' attack.  She felt a certain warmth, knowing that these people were willing to fight to defend her.

            Well, maybe not their Chinese friends.  Akane was pretty sure Shampoo fought for her own personal revenge--when the Amazon had heard that the one responsible for wounding her yesterday was still at large, her smile had only turned thinner and crueller.  Of course, wherever Shampoo fought, Mousse stood by her side and one step behind; and as for Cologne, who could guess that inscrutable old woman's motivations in anything?  The Amazon matriarch had essentially taken control of the situation upon arrival, and had her wards patrolling in pairs, Shampoo with Ukyou, Mousse with Genma.

            Her father looked as gallant as she had ever seen him, wearing the old brown dogi which had carried him through his travels with Genma and Happosai.  He stood stoically by the sliding doors that led to the back, silhouetted against the twilight sky outside.  It frightened her to think he would willingly lay down his life to defend hers; but it won't come to that, Akane thought, because if anything tries to hurt Dad, I'll pound it into dust.  Ryoga stood watching from the top of the stairs, just in case anything broke through the barricaded windows on the second floor.  Kuno remained with the non-combatants, Kasumi, Nodoka, and Nabiki, huddled together near the kitchen.  He played the role of samurai guardsman to perfection, despite her middle sister's frequent belittling comments.

            As for Ranma: he stood next to her, back in his male form, and the hovering protectiveness that had so annoyed her during the last week was nothing compared to the loose readiness with which he now held himself.  The look in his eyes was one she had never seen before, or maybe only once in a half-remembered dream.  It was hard, and cold, and behind that lurked something very, very mean.  Even though she knew it existed in defence of her, she realized she did not like seeing such a look on Ranma's face.  But how long could he hold himself in that ready, angry state?  Already it was getting late, past seven, and though both Cologne and Ranma remained certain that something--possibly many somethings--waited outside, nothing more had been seen.

            Cologne pogoed into the room.  "It would appear that they wish to play a waiting game with us.  Likely they expect us to get either tired or impatient."

            Ranma nodded and smiled grimly.  "Not me.  Soul of ice."

            Akane shivered against a night breeze, and the night suddenly seemed darker and colder.  Cologne tensed.  "What was that?"

            The pigtailed boy shrugged.  "I dunno, I didn't feel nothin'."

            "Nevertheless, remain on guard."

            "What do you think I've been doin', sleeping?  I told ya, there's nothing out there or I would've felt it."

            "You questioning me, boy?"  Cologne turned on Ranma, and the younger martial artist glared back.  "You doubt my talents?"

            He snorted.  "You doubt mine?"

            Cologne laughed, and the sound was unpleasant.  "I thought we settled this six months ago, son-in-law, or have you forgotten the lesson I taught you?"

            Ranma scowled and flushed red.  "Oh no, Old Ghoul, I haven't forgotten.  Not at all."

            Akane watched as they began to argue, becoming increasingly hostile, and wondered, what's wrong with these two?  She knew that they had had some kind of falling out soon after his return from China, though the details remained uncertain: he had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want anybody prying into his business, and had proven extremely touchy when the subject was brought up.  Did this level of resentment still remain between them?

            "Arrogant whelp, flying so high," said Cologne, smirking disdainfully.  "You ought to thank me.  You came close to burning those young wings, but I certainly brought you down to earth, hard, didn't I?"

            "That was then, you old bitch," he growled, and took a step towards her.  "And this is now."

            This is crazy, Akane thought, what are they going to do, fight?  "Hey, wait a second," she said, standing up.  "What do you think you're doing?  Calm down!"

            "Shut up, you silly little girl," said Cologne without taking her eyes off of Ranma.  "This does not concern you."

            "Don't you talk to her that way," said Ranma.  "Don't you _ever_ talk to her like that."

            "Hey, what's going on down there?" called Ryoga from upstairs.  "What's with all the yelling?"

            "Shut up, Piggy!" answered Ranma back.  "Stick to your own business."

            "Hey!"  The lost boy's heavy steps descended the stairs, and turning the corner he joined the group.  "I was only asking a question!"

            "What the hell do you think you're doing?" yelled Ranma.  "You left your post!"

            "You think you're doing a better job than me, eh, Ranma, arguing with the mummy?" answered Ryoga, flushing red.

            "Whom are you calling a mummy?" said Cologne, rapping his head with her stick.

            "Ouch!"

            "Stop it!"  Akane started as her father, thus far silently and steadfastly maintaining his guard, suddenly turned and glared at the bickering crowd.  "My daughter's life is in danger and all you can do is argue amongst yourselves?"

            "Oh, big surprise," muttered Nabiki from her corner of the room.  "With this crowd?  I'm surprised it took this long."

            "Now that's not nice," admonished Kasumi, frowning ever so slightly.

            "Now, now, girls," interrupted Ranma's mother, and her hand fell gently onto the grip of her sword.  "Sisters shouldn't argue."

            "I will brook no more arguing in this house," insisted Soun, cracking his knuckles.  "Not when my dear Akane's life is at risk!"

            "Is violent girl's own fault," added another voice from behind, and Akane turned to see the four people who were supposed to be on patrol standing outside the entrance her father had been guarding.  "Why we risk our life for stupid girl's mistakes?"

            Akane would have protested, but Ukyou beat her to it.  "What the hell are you jackasses doing?" the okonomiyaki chef demanded.  "We could hear the yelling from the other side of the house!"

            Kuno stepped in, having heard the earlier slur against Akane.  "Peasant," he said, levelling his bokken at the purple-haired Amazon, "how dare you, simple girl that you are, slander the fair Akane's name in such a way?"

            A barely audible 'snick', and suddenly Mousse had a long, jagged curved blade in his hand.  "I wouldn't point that at her if I were you," he said softly, "if you want to wake up tomorrow morning."

            The drawing of the first weapons seemed the signal for others to make an appearance.  Spatula, bonbori, and walking stick were brought to bear, even as others shifted into combat ready stances.  Akane watched in stunned disbelief as she saw her friends square off, each against all the others.  Arguing reaching a new fevered pitch, and everybody's face was red and horribly disfigured in anger.  Threats were thrown around indiscriminately, weapons and fists were pointed almost at random, rage redirected at the slightest provocation.

            Why am I the only one who isn't angry? Akane thought.  Aren't I usually the first one to lose my temper?  This just isn't right. . . .  She looked up at Ranma, and saw how the normally relaxed, cheerful features were distorted and ugly in his wrath, and saw that terrible hardness in his eyes turned on Ryoga; and Akane knew that if she didn't act now, things were about to get very, very ugly.

            "STOP IT!" she yelled, and when her words had little effect on the already screaming crowd, she jumped up and grabbed her fiance's arm.  "Stop it, Ranma!  This isn't right!"

            For a moment he turned away from his target, and his eyes focussed on her.  She quailed and her knees felt week at the horrible coldness of his look, and Akane suddenly wondered, is this what Saffron saw in that final moment, when Ranma fought for my life?  She gasped in pain at the tightness of his grip, and a more pressing concern took precedence: is he about to hit me? she asked herself.  Just as it seemed Ranma was about to rear back with one fist, something akin to indecision softened the hardness of those eyes, and he turned away.  He shoved her back, roughly, saying, "Stay outta this, university girl.  This don't concern you."

            Akane stumbled, fell, and her head rapped painfully against the living room table.  Tears sprang to her eyes, though whether from the pain or Ranma's callous treatment she couldn't tell.  Lying briefly among the shuffling, violently moving legs of her friends and family, she thought in desperation, what's going on?

            And then: through the blurriness of her tears, a red haze at the periphery of her vision, an indistinct crimson cloud that hovered in the corner of her eye.  She blinked and shook her head, and even though the tears cleared the haze remained, and as she sat up, it seemed her view of the room was seen through a bloodied filter.  What the hell, she thought, and winced as a sharp pain lanced through her head.  She gasped as the pain redoubled, as a high keening assaulted her ears, steadily increasing from an indistinct background hum to a deafening wail; and she clapped her hands over her ears and screamed for it to stop, and her cry went unheard in the sudden clash of weapons and fists and feet above her; and then, so abruptly it came as a surprise, the sound and pain reverberating within her skull stopped.

            She opened her eyes and uncovered her ears, and scrambled away from the sudden chaotic battle forming around her.  She choked down another scream at the scene revealed before her.  Everywhere, her friends and family were at each other's throat.  And beyond them: a single, luminous eye the size of a dinner plate hung suspended from the ceiling, and unblinkingly it stared at the scene below.  Some kind of gelatinous fluid surrounded it, forming its liquid body, and it flowed eerily along the entire surface of the ceiling.  What the hell re we fighting here, Akane thought, how the hell did this thing sneak in?  Staring at it through the persistent red haze that seemed thickest about that translucent creature above, she suddenly understood that it was somehow responsible for what was happening to her friends.  The eye shifted and focussed on her, and in that alien gaze she saw both intelligence and malevolence.  Wet tendrils emerged from the mucous mass suspended above and reached toward her.

            I need a weapon, she thought desperately, drawing back from the wall, and just then one was presented to her: the Saotome family katana slid across the floor as Genma knocked his wife down, and Akane stamped down on the blade with her foot.  It flipped up and she grabbed it from the air.  It sat comfortably in her hand.

            "Leave my friends alone!" she yelled.  Bracing herself against the table, she launched herself into the air.  She flew straight for the eye.  At the apex of her leap she threw the sword spear-like, and her aim was true: the blade pierced the lidless eye straight through the slitted pupil, and buried itself to the hilt in its fluid mass.

            In mid-swing, the fighting ended, even as the creature suddenly lost its cohesion and fell from the walls and ceiling in a stringy, goopy mess, leaving the katana imbedded in the ceiling above.

            "What the hell?" Ranma muttered, shaking his head, as Cologne swore vehemently in rapid Chinese at herself.  Others picked themselves off the floor, cursing or blinking in confusion, or retrieving their scattered weapons from the warm, sticky fluid that now coated everything, including themselves.  Akane could tell at a quick glance that no one had been wounded, not seriously--but it had come so very, very close.  If she hadn't . . . but then, she was the only one that had not been affected by that strange red haze.

            Ryoga was staring at her in wonderment.

            "What?" she asked.

            "Your . . . forehead," he said, and pointed.  "It was glowing!"

            She tentatively reached one hand to her brow, and felt nothing there.  She shrugged, and was about to tell him that she had no idea what was happening, and try to explain to the others what she had seen and done, when she saw movement: suddenly looming out of the darkness behind Ryoga, a figure approached rapidly, light gleaming off a toothed maw most certainly inhuman; and behind it the darkness swelled with the forerunner's brethren.

            "Here they come!" she screamed.

Continues in

Chapter Four: The Siege


	5. The Siege

What has gone before:

Ranma came into possession of a strange book.  Two men called Karadoku and Zara challenged him for it.  Ranma lost, only to discover Akane had already stolen it.  In using it, she became marked by magic she released.  Soon after, a string of savage murders plagued Nerima: young girls slaughtered by a beast drawn by Akane's unwitting use of the book.  Ranma defeated it, but realized that more would soon come.  In the aftermath of his success, he helped his fiancee deal with the guilt she felt for having (she felt) inadvertently caused innocent people's deaths.  Allies were called in and they prepared for the inevitable assault.

***

The heavy hand on her shoulder was both reassuring and frightening.  "Make me proud, my youngest daughter," Father said.  Pride was the furthest thing from her mind.  I'm scared, she wanted to say.  The strong presence of Father behind made it unnecessary, made her doubts irrelevant.  He already knew her deepest fears, controlled her secret needs utterly--and left no possibility of turning back.  Already her new brothers and sisters were changing, releasing the anger that Father had blessed them with.  The scene would have been nightmarish had she not seen it before: skin peeling back and flesh exploding outward as the inhuman shapes beneath stood revealed in the soft moonlight.  The anxious whispers of a moment ago became animalistic sibilant hissing, deep-throated wet gurgling, and the sharp snapping of skeletal jaws.  Seen before, maybe, but she still wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and found herself whispering, "this can't be happening how did this happen to me can't do this," incessantly, the words repeating in a litany of panic.

              Father's grip on her shoulder tightened.  "It is your turn," he said.  Leaning closer, his soft voice was now meant only for her.  "My newly appointed child, my specially chosen daughter, first of my new brood: I know you will do me proud.  Fear neither this night nor the bloody deeds you must do.  Embrace them as you embraced the gift my love drew out of you.  Join your brothers and sisters in their revenge, daughter.  Join them as they make of the mangled corpses of your enemies a gift raised to my glory.  Do you feel your brethren's anger, their hate?  Do you feel the same stirring deep within?  Embrace it.  Release it!"

              The cool night air brushing past tickled her arm, carrying to her the scents of elsewhere.  Stars far above and the moon filled the dark spaces between her and the house with silvery paleness.  Loud sounds of heated argument drifting to her from within her goal.  Nearby, the impossibly still readiness of her eldest brother standing forward; the lithe serpentine stretch of her eldest sister next to him; and her two other brothers arrayed next to Father.  She breathed deeply and closed her eyes.  Held herself in perfect peace for a single moment that seemed to stretch forever, and then opened her mind to the reality of what she had to do.

              She would follow her new family into that house and she would kill everyone inside.  For the first time in her life she would grab her own victim--weak, helpless, ignorant--and feast.  Plunge her hand through his belly and clutch at the slippery lengths inside.  Something long and black and chitinous erupted from what had been her right arm.  Plunge her face into that softness and feed on the meat, long loops of entrails sucked back to feed the insatiable hunger within.  The skin on her face rippled and crawled away, revealing venomous sharpness beneath.  The deserving pain that filled her was nearly as sweet as the strength she now felt, and she raised her head to the sky in a wailing cry of tortured pleasure that abruptly twisted into a series of rapid, high-pitched inhuman clicks.

              "Forward!" ordered Father.  "Kill them!  But leave the girl to me!"

              His will surged and filled her utterly.  He filled them all and, overcome with his bloodlust and the resonating urges that echoed within, Ayumi Utada charged forward alongside her siblings.  All doubts gone.  The wind blowing through her long hair as she ran, her spine twisting and innards churning.  It all makes sense now, she thought.  Her sight shattered into fragmented perception, her left eye first bulging out and then splitting into bulbous clusters.  Like this I'm not nothing.  Only the momentary wetness in the other eye kept her vision from being perfectly clear.

Let the Curtain Fall

by Michael Noakes

(June 26/2001-September 01/2001)

An epic fanfiction set in the Ranma 1/2 world of Rumiko Takahashi.

Previous chapters found at http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m.

Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;

Light dies before thine uncreating word:

Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;

And universal darkness buries all.

The Dunciad

Act One,

Chapter Four:

The Siege

Numbly and with a terrified scream bubbling up inside, she stumbled back as the sliding doors were ripped from their track, something massive and wet and red crashing into the room and tearing down the wall, charging into her friends, still off-balance from the last attack, confused in the aftermath of that terrible anger Akane had somehow dispelled, and bumping into the wall behind Nabiki Tendo felt weak in the knees, thinking, they're not ready, we're screwed!

              The hulking red figure--is it covered in blood? she absently wondered--smashed its massive fist into the confused huddle of young martial artists.  Reflexes returned instantly and they scattered and then the beast staggered back as Cologne slammed her stick into its chest, leaped past and intercepted another figure sliding in, a long tailed lizard-like woman, scaled and carrying long wavy knives in its many arms, it struck quickly but was deflected by the lightning-fast blocks of the ancient Amazon, Shit, Nabiki thought, I've never seen the old woman move so fast, but she's buying us the time we need.  Then a third figure entered, a man, tall, flesh desiccated and taut, nearly skeletal, wrongly-bent arms a sudden blur and then Kuno was in front of her, bokken flashing down, something shattering against the edge of his blade mere centimeters from her neck, and then he was moving again, knocking her roughly down as he jumped for Mrs. Saotome, his sword again catching an unseen projectile.  Stunned and unable to regain her feet, Nabiki watched from her sprawled position as Ukyou leapt into the battle, giant spatula scything down at the lizard woman, only to have the shaft of her weapon caught between the blades of three knives and twisted, the okonomiyaki chef sent flying into Mousse, the Chinese boy's flurry of knives sent astray but deflected by her father as he pushed Kasumi behind him, his outraged cry answered by something incomprehensible in Chinese as Shampoo smashed her bonbori into the side of the massive red thing, sending bloody gunk spattering everywhere but to little effect as it twisted around and sent her flying with a backhand, the purple-haired warrior nearly clipping her grandmother as the old woman leapt to-and-fro, shoring up the sudden gaps left as the younger fighters got knocked around, and through it all Nabiki noticed Ranma standing unmoving and unresponsive in the middle of the room, Akane a few hesitant steps behind.

              Nabiki's scream tried bursting free but caught in her throat, more a hiccup of fear than a proper cry, as the huge crimson creature suddenly loomed before her supine form, and she realized that it _was_ blood, that a three meter tall human-shaped mass of bleeding seeping bubbling flesh was about to crush her with a fist the size of her torso, I don't think I can blackmail this guy, she thought inanely, hope briefly returning as a flurry of spatulas imbedded themselves in its chest; but to no effect; and then the fist came down and with a reverberating howl Ryouga slammed into the monster, physically picking it up and carrying it away with his charge and crashing through the wall and out of the house.

              A helping hand pulled her up.  "Methinks we had best retreat to a safer position," Kuno said.  He pulled her towards the stairs.  She noted that Mr. Saotome was doing the same with his wife and Dad was covering Kasumi, the four of them already climbing towards the second floor.  Her samurai-wannabe came last, bokken held low.  The top of his hakama fluttered open from a long slash across his body.  Beneath the loose cloth she could see blood trickling along the length of his well-muscled chest and mixing with the sheen of sweat.  His eyes never left the enemies held in the main room of the house.  Nabiki looked back and saw the skeletal figure, utterly still with arms bent mantis-like before him, but checked by Ranma and Akane; apparently the martial artist had finally woken up.  The lizard-like creature with the knives was gone, but so were Shampoo and Mousse and Ukyou.  Standing at the entrance was a new opponent: a tall strongly built man, or so Nabiki thought but it was hard to tell, he wore no clothes and his skin was entirely black, mirrored obsidian, and he seemed an extension of the night lurking beyond the lights of the house.  The darkness seemed to roil about him, vacant wisps and curls flicking across his surface.  Cologne stepped in front of the man, and then Kuno forced her further up the stairs.

              A sudden eerie calm descended.  Her hurried breathing and the heavy steps ahead were the only breaks in the silence.  Mr. Saotome led the way, moving quickly and pulling his wife along with a strong grip, taking them away from the stairs.  They gathered near the end of the hallway.  Ms. Saotome looked lost, holding to her empty scabbard with a strong grip.  Somehow Kasumi still managed to look serene despite the attack, though her face was dotted with perspiration.

              Nabiki listened for sounds of pursuit.  She thought she could hear muffled thumps from outside.  Faint Chinese cries from the front.  Yells from downstairs--Ranma?  All around the sounds of battle, but distant, nearly overwhelmed by the hammering of her heart.  She felt disjointed from the reality of what was happening.  Friends were fighting for their lives, for _her_ life, even her sister, so near and yet there was nothing that she could do to help.

              "I think we're safe for the moment," Genma said, standing tensely, and Nabiki couldn't tell whether he was relieved to be away from the battle or wanted to rush back into the fray.  He looked more frightening, somehow, than the cowardly, stupid fat man she had grown to despise over the last two years.  The eyes behind his glasses were hard and dangerous, and they watched the staircase attentively.

              A sudden hiss from Kasumi's room.  The sound of cats, the single hiss taken up by many, a screech that sent her skin crawling.  Then a multitude of yowls and feline cries, almost humanlike in their pitch.  A rapid series of wet slapping sounds, dull thuds, and heavy silence once again.  The new quiet stretched out and Nabiki realized she was starting to shake.  Well, there goes Ranma's backup plan, she thought.  Kasumi gasped, one hand raised to her lips in mute horror.  She must be picturing what happened, Nabiki thought, trying to avoid doing the same, and then sudden renewed fear: I thought they were all downstairs!

              The three men oriented on the door to Kasumi's room, faces grim.  They crept forward slowly, their steps silent, not even flinching at a sudden detonation which flashed outside, the window flaring brilliantly and sending their shadows scuttling across the floor.  Kuno held back as Genma nodded once at her father, and the two took up positions on either side of the entrance.  Her father lifted his fist, raising fingers in a silent count, as his friend reached for the door.

              The door behind them exploded outward.  It cracked into the back of Genma's head and knocked him down.  Out of Happosai's guest room leapt a new enemy, a brief glimpse of long hair and insect legs seen through the flying fragments of wood.  Ms. Saotome, the closest, stumbled back and into Kasumi, the two falling down in a heap.  A small, slender woman stepped past them--small except for the long, thorny spider-like legs that erupted from her right side, shoulder, and back; the cluster of eyes that spread across the left half of her face, glinting above the grotesque mandible that protruded from her drooping jaw; and the swollen sac that hung off her distorted belly.  Dad turned quickly but that heavy sac flipped up, spraying something white and viscous that hit him square in the chest.  He flew back and thudded into the wall, dazed.  Even as he slumped the liquid solidified, ensnaring him in thick web-like strands.  He cried in impotent rage as the half-spider woman ignored him.  She blocked Kuno's swift strike with the outside of one arachnid leg and simultaneously smacked him across the face with another; the third slammed him across the chest in the opposite direction.  The kendoist went sprawling and bounced hard off the wall.  He fell unconscious to the floor.  She stepped forward almost delicately, walking with the fine precision of a dancer or model over his body.  Hell, where she's not all deformed and all spidery she's actually pretty hot, Nabiki thought, she's even kind of familiar looking and shit, shit, she's coming this way what the hell am I thinking am I going to do?

              She turned and ran.  She managed less than three steps before her world suddenly tilted.  Legs ripped out from under, she slammed into the ground, gasping at the jarring impact.  She flipped onto her back and saw webbing encasing her legs, stretching back to the bulging belly of the woman.  Those horribly long spider-legs blurred as they swiftly spun the strands back.  Nabiki's fingers scrabbled futilely at the grooves in the wooden floor as she was dragged closer.  She saw herself reflected in those clustered eyes, but nothing else--certainly no pity, and the single human eye looked dead.

              An unexpected yell interrupted.  Behind the woman, Genma jumped back to his feet, tossing the door aside.  Hope flared in Nabiki.  "C'mon, you worthless panda!" she cried, "Do something already!"

              "You should mind your manners, girl," he growled, charging forward.

              His entire body jerked savagely before he could take more than a single step.  Blood blossomed from his shoulder, spraying the opposite wall.  He stared down numbly at the pair of thick, whip-like tendrils plunging through his back and out his front.  They curled and twisted sinuously, then swiftly retracted back through the closed door into Kasumi's room.  With a groan of pain, Genma collapsed to one knee.

              The door to Kasumi's room opened and a short, portly man calmly stepped out.  Balding, face stubbly with unshaven patches, naked but for a pair of startling white, obviously new briefs--he would have been laughable had it not been for the blood smeared across his face and hands.  The newcomer took an obvious moment to savour the situation.  He looked disdainfully at Nabiki's scattered family and friends.  His lips twisted into a condescending smirk and then he kicked Genma in the face.  The fat, older Saotome rocked back and fell over, and then the man began wordlessly beating the shit out of the downed martial artist.

              The spider-woman stepped in front of her, blocking her view.

              Nabiki could only watch in immobile disbelief thinking, how the hell did this happen?  How did this shit doesn't happen to students the worst thing I should have to worry about is deadlines and perverted professors and shit shit she's reaching for me where the hell is everyone else has normal families why'd mine have to be so weird she's opening my fucking shirt and think Nabiki think get yourself out of this why does she look so familiar, think dammit!  One of the long, overreaching spider legs pulled along the front of her shirt, popping buttons.  Then it carefully peeled the shirt open.  The leading edge of the leg glinted in the light, not razor sharp but close enough, the chitin forming a narrow edge, and it drew a slow line across the length of Nabiki's trembling belly.

              "I have to do this," the woman unexpectedly said, voice distorted by the mandible protruding from her mouth but still recognizable, and the leg lifted until it stood poised above Nabiki's exposed stomach, the point pressing into the skin, ready to plunge down, and then with a flash of sudden insight recognition hit the mercenary Tendo: if one of these things could be a banker, then why not an up-and-coming pop idol?

              "Hey, aren't you Ayumi Utada?" she asked conversationally.

              Ranma Saotome watched his opponent warily.  They were alone: Akane, and the attacker, and himself.  By some unspoken agreement Cologne and the obsidian man had pulled back to the dojo to continue their fight there.  Now he faced this final opponent: a tall, gangly-limbed man, painfully ugly, emaciated enough to be nearly skeletal, with dry and leathery skin stretched taut across jutting bone. Nearly two meters tall but made shorter by a curving back, the spine clearly outlined, it stood utterly unmoving with both too-long arms poised mantis-like, the joints unnatural-looking on something so human, long fingers hanging slim and narrow.

              It stood there watching him impassively.  Narrow eyes seemed to look right through him.  No, _past_ him, he realized . . . and right at his fiancee.

              "Stay back, Akane," he said.

              "Hey, I'm a--"

              "You're out of your league," he cut her off abruptly.  "We all are."

              "Then you'll need my help!" she insisted.

              "Dammit, Akane, one of these things almost killed me last night!  If it's even half as tough, you might get--"

              Without seeming to move, the desiccated man suddenly appeared directly in front of Ranma.  "You are the one who killed my brother?" it said, voice dry and raspy, head cocked inquisitively to one side.

              With a yelp of surprise, Ranma leapt back, keeping Akane behind him and thinking, I didn't even see it _move_!

              A blink, and then it was standing behind him, mere centimetres from Akane.  She gasped and he yanked her away.  "Father said you were a girl."  Suddenly next to Akane again, it calmly continued.  "Doesn't matter, I suppose."  Again next to Ranma, this time on his left.  "As eldest, it is my duty to avenge his death," it said, the skin of its face drawing tighter across protruding cheekbones.  He realized it was smiling.

              Both martial artists jumped away.  It was already waiting for them where they landed.  "And I think you will find me far more than merely 'half as tough' as my unfortunate sibling. . . ."

              The first attack came, not nearly as fast as it moved yet still blindingly quick, barely visible to the martial artist's trained eyes, mantis-like arms snapping out.  Ranma blocked the attack, bruising forearm impact, flicked a kick out, missed, stepping in and leaning to avoid the counter, other leg lashing up but glancing off his enemy's knee, pulling back, twisting into a loose stance, backhand whipping out and whistling through air.  Open palm held forward, right fist chambered by his ribs, the first trickle of sweat dotting his forehead as he shifted his stance to track his opponent's reappearance a few meters away.  Its movements were impossibly quick, invisible as it zipped across the room.  It resumed its earlier immobility.

              "Stand still, dammit!" Ranma yelled, leaping forward, punch flashing out, striking nothing, his foe again on the other side of the hall.  Its arms blurred, flinging something; Ranma barely twisted his head aside from the first as it zinged past his nose; and he snagged the second from the air.  In the palm of his hand lay a moist razor-sharp ring: a spinal disk.

              "Dude, that's gross," he said, and then its limbs were a blur, faster this time but still visible--barely--to the martial-artist's sight: arm reaching over the shoulder, tearing another weapon from its own spine, the protruding ridge healing instantly, the ring then flung shuriken-like his way.  He ran perpendicular to his foe, projectiles cutting into the wall behind, narrowly missing, trailing shirt edge sliced as he leapt forward.  He hit the ground and rolled, wooden thud as tatami behind ruptured in bamboo shreds, and twisting as he rose he caught the last two disks in each hand.  He snapped them back as quickly as they reached his fingers.

              It wasn't there anymore.  It was behind him.  Dry strangling fingers wrapped around his neck.  By iron strength he felt himself lifted off the ground, air completely cut off, his fluttering rear kicks hitting nothing, and then dizzying lurch as the grapple twisted, flipping Ranma upside down--and slammed him face-first into the floor.   Mats split and wooden planks cracked and his head imbedded in the cold earthen ground beneath.

              So you wanna play rough, huh? he thought.

              He pushed off with one hand, popping straight back out of his hole.  Somersaulted in midair and landed in a three-point crouch, senses fully extended.  It was standing in front of Akane, both her wrists wrapped in one long hand and effortlessly held suspended off the ground.  She glared furiously as it curiously looked her over.

              "So you are the Key," it observed.

              "Leave her alone!" Ranma screamed.

              He rushed forward, a tightly restrained shadow of his earlier anger surging through him.  The idea of this thing touching Akane enraged him.  Of his friends getting hurt.  Those girls who died.  He still didn't know why.  His own cowardice, the fear he felt at the beginning, reluctance to join the battle, only the Old Ghoul's quick reflexes blunting the initial charge, should have been him, but he had been left weak and impotent as that impossible rage Akane had seen through drained away, terrified at what he almost did--kill a friend, hit Akane!  Nearly as bad, the euphoria that rage fed, what it seemed to empower him to do, the possibilities unravelling, the very ideas, his father's lesson, Saffron, to kill. . . .  "Don't touch her!"

              He reached Akane in a flash but it was already gone, his fiancee dropped.  Ranma caught her in his arms before she hit the ground.

              "You okay?" he asked.

              She nodded mutely.

              He gently put her down.  Their opponent stood several meters away, again unmoving, impassive.  Its eyes never left Akane.  This infuriated Ranma all the more.

              "You can't have her!" he yelled.  "She's mine!"

              "No," it answered, "Now she belongs to Father."

              It attacked, crossing the distance in an instant but somehow no longer invisible, Ranma's anger heightening his senses, the faintest hint of movement as it ran, phantom image instinctively glimpsed.  Suddenly close it unleashed a constant flurry of bruising open-palm strikes, the edge of its hands glancing painfully off of the martial artist's desperate blocks.  A spear-hand slashed across one shoulder and he felt wetness there, blood; and then he realized those steel-strong fingers could easily lance straight through flesh.  Damn, he thought, I've got to put this guy down quick, I can't keep this kind of blocking up all day.

              As it was, he was already entirely on the defensive, barely able to match his foe's speed, unable to slip an attack of his own in, so focused on blocking and redirecting strikes he was unable to take advantage of its immobility.  It just stood there, arms lashing out without even any real martial skill, without emotions, eyes never leaving Akane.

              "You have no idea how important she is," it said, the exchange of attacks and blocks stretching out.

              Ranma grunted, pain erupting in his side as an attack slipped through.  "I know how much she means to me," he answered.  I won't lose, he told himself, I'll wear him down, he can't keep this up for long. . . .

              But his opponent showed no sign of weariness, of even really paying attention to him, while he began to feel the burn in his muscles, the pain in his bruised arms spreading, breath becoming hotter.  I can't keep this up, he thought.  He looked for a pattern in his opponent's strikes and found none: or rather, saw a complete lack of skill or technique, and recognized the attacks for the untrained flailing of a beginner--but released with strength and speed beyond reason.

              Time to show this guy what twelve years of training is worth, Ranma thought.  He started to sneak some advanced technique into his blocking.  Complex redirection meant to set up his opponent for a counterstrike; rapid weaving blocks intended to slide him inside his foe's reach; and slowly, he found himself inching closer.

              "What do you want with her?" he asked, lead foot sneaking a centimetre forward.

              Without glancing his way, it answered, "Her death means freedom for us all."

              "Not while I'm alive, asshole."  With a sudden burst of speed he shifted his stance and slipped within its reach, absorbing a glancing strike against his ribs and narrowly sidestepping the other arm.  "An opening!" he shouted, and up close he twisted sharply, rear hand thrusting forward, palm-heel slamming into its sternum, body humming with desperate strength.  His entire arm shuddered with the impact, brief numbness flashing through his shoulder, side, leg and heel.

              It didn't flinch.  It didn't even fall back a step.  Both hands slapped down and grabbed the martial artist by the shoulders and lifted him off the ground.  It looked annoyed.

              "You hit me," it said.

              "Twice!" Ranma snarled.  Grabbing the grasping limbs and bracing himself against the strength of those arms, he snapped his legs up from the waist, extended feet thudding into its head with crushing strength.  His foot throbbed with the impact.  It was like kicking a wall--no, worse than a wall: more like Ryouga.

              A vertiginous tilting, and it flipped him upside down and slammed him face first into the ground again.  Ranma's head punched another hole in the floor.  Before he could recover he felt those long fingers wrap around his ankles and suddenly drag him lengthwise.  Wood planks and tatami mats crumpled and splintered against his chest as he ripped a long gouge across the floor.  His arc lifted him free, and then he went flying as it released him.  He smashed through a wall and crashed into the kitchen and impacted the fridge.  He pulled himself from the dented metal and leapt back into the room.

              It stood over Akane's sprawled form, the shattered remains of a table scattered around it.  Blood trickled from the edge of her mouth.  Her cheek was bright red.  It reached down to grab her.

              "I said don't touch her!" Ranma screamed.  He attacked with renewed fury, the weariness in his limbs forgotten, reaching for more speed, greater strength, determined to put this bastard down, nobody touches Akane!  And though it still kept its eyes on Akane, its speed did not seem as impossible as before; Ranma's anger allowed him to squeeze in the occasional attack.  I can beat this guy, Ranma told himself.  I can match his speed--no, I can do better!  Again the flurry of exchanged strikes lengthened, but this time his body thrilled with the surety of victory and kept exhaustion at bay.  His senses seemed to expand, reaching out to encompass the entirety of the battle: a sudden hole knocked into the ceiling, Kuno's dazed head popping through; Shampoo unexpectedly running past, sword held high; and. . . .

              A sudden loud scream rang out from upstairs.  And Akane, having pulled herself away and hovering anxiously at the edge of Ranma's vision, faced the noise.  "Nabiki," she cried.  She turned away.  Started to run to her sister.  Leaving herself open.  Dry taut skin pulling back in a smirk.  Ranma realized: the bony bastard was keeping him busy--for minutes, as his friends were being slaughtered elsewhere!

              "No!" he cried.  "Akane, wait," but in reaching for her he left himself open.  A blow slammed into his chest with sledgehammer power, sending him reeling.  As he stumbled back, gasping for air, that same blurred image appeared ahead, his enemy suddenly looming over him, again uncaring but momentarily turning its full attention his way.  One hand speared out, fast, far faster than any previous attack, too quick to see let alone follow, he hadn't come _close_ to challenging this thing's speed, and Ranma flung himself aside to avoid the strike: thunderous eruption of wet pain in his head, and then everything tilted over.  The young martial artist thudded into the ground.  He had a brief glimpse of his enemy turning towards his fiancee's receding back, and then everything dropped into darkness.

              Kasumi Tendo backed away, rising fear threatening to dispel the tenuous hope she was desperately holding to.  She still believed everything would come out okay, in the end: she had to, otherwise the reality of what was happening would be too much to handle, too horrible, the spider-girl talking to Nabiki, that horrible naked man hurting poor Mr. Saotome, Mrs. Saotome still clutching her empty scabbard, staring numbly as her husband was thrown against a wall, and her own father straining futilely against the webs that held him; and then the horrible man was turning towards her, a smirk dancing faintly across his lips.  He stepped over Kuno's prone form, eyes widening with an anticipation that sent an unpleasant shiver down Kasumi's spine.

              She looked away and found little comfort.  Mr. Saotome groaned, battered and bloodied, a heap in the corner, his wife rushing to his side.  At least Nabiki seemed to be doing well, she told herself:  She seemed to have made a new friend.

              "You're just, like, my favorite," her younger sister squealed, sounding more like a teenager than she ever had in youth.  "I just bought your new CD, I love it!  Especially that third track, 'Automatic Love Machine Evolution'?  It, like, really spoke to me, you know, touched something deep inside, right?"

"Really?" the spider woman gurgled, the words coming after a long pause.  It lifted its long leg away from Nabiki.

              "Oh, yeah, you're like totally awesome super cool!  Sometimes, I wish I could be just like you!  Like, in that new video you did, you know, with those, er. . . guys. . . that stup-, er, cool!, yeah, cool boy band, you know-"

              "Ravashi-6?"

              "Yeah!  That was like, er, wow, you know, just . . . _wow_!"

              Kasumi felt a hand on her chin gently pulling her gaze back, and she saw the man standing in front of her.  He left something wet on her cheek, and she tentatively touched her fingers to it: they came away spotted with red.  His smile grew and he raised his hand.  It was covered in blood and clumps of fur.

              "You--you shouldn't have done that," she said weakly.  "They never did anything to you."

              He shrugged wordlessly, eyes dancing with amusement.

              "What do you want?" she asked.

              He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

              "Please don't hurt my family."

              Something in her words suddenly angered the man.  His lips twisted into a scowl, eyes narrowing with disgust.  One hand grabbed her shoulder and shoved her back into the wall and held her there.  The other settled softly around her throat.

              "Please," she pleaded.  "Don't hurt my sisters."

              At that he smiled again, widely, lips parting, and as his mouth opened she gasped at what she saw within: an absence, an empty space, the fleshy curve of the inside back of his head clearly seen--but then movement, and rushing into that void a mass of twisting, writhing tendrils, thin and pale.  They reached from his mouth, twisting obscenely, as his hand on her shoulder pulled her down and he raised his open lips towards hers . . . Kasumi felt something expand inside, a bubble of fear pushing at the boundaries of her serenity as she watched those crawling cilia reach for her . . .then something popped, and terror flushed through her and a scream she hadn't known was building inside rose in her throat, and already she was screaming inside, help me oh God help me somebody, and before her voice tore free another scream responded, no, not a scream, but a fierce howl of rage: Father.

              The horrible naked bloodied man holding her buckled as something powerful hit him from behind, and then he was suddenly wrenched away.  "Leave my daughter alone!" Father yelled as he picked the man off the ground.  Behind him the wall lay shattered, spider-webbing scattered, strands still fluttering from his brown dogi as he lifted the flailing man overhead.  "Get out of my house!"  He threw the man hard against the wall, and then rushed to her side, grabbing her by the arm.

              "Father!" she gasped.

              He flashed a quick smile, moustache bristling and eyes sharp.  "Your old man isn't finished yet!"  He gently pushed her towards Akane's room and turned back for his other daughter.  The spider-girl looked up from her sister.  Nabiki took the opportunity to pull away and started pulling at the thick strands around her feet with a piece of broken wall.

              The fallen man lifted himself onto one knee.  His head was flattened on one side, but he seemed unhurt, eyes blazing with anger.  One hand snapped up, and Kasumi glimpsed something reaching out, before everything tilted as Father pulled her aside.  A long, wetly-gleaming whip-like tentacle hung momentarily where she had just been before swiftly retracting back into the man's forearm.  Her sister's voice called out.  Kasumi looked up at her father.  Hopeless indecision etched his face as he looked between his two daughters, the spider-girl standing between him and Nabiki.  The naked man regained his feet and turned towards them, even as the spider-girl took a threatening step forward.

              "Get her out of here!" yelled a voice from behind.  "I'll save Nabiki!"  Mr. Saotome, back on his feet, face covered in blood, dogi hanging in tatters off his large frame.  Mr. Saotome, with his wife held protectively behind him, and a hardness of expression she had never seen before shining in his eyes.

              "Old friend!"

              "Go!"

              Kasumi found herself carried forward, Father's strong arms keeping her low, something lashing out overhead and cleaving twin long gouges along the wall, and then they ducked into her sister's room and into darkness and surprising quiet.

              "Father?" she asked, unsure of what to do.

              "The window," he said, pointing.

              They ran across the room, reaching the window and pulling it open.  The door behind them was ripped off its hinges.  Framed against the hallway's light stood the girl, her spider-like half a monstrous distortion of the slim silhouette.

              "Quickly!" Father said.  His foot hooked and flipped up one of Akane's stray barbells.  He sent it flying towards the girl as he wrapped a strong arm around Kasumi's waist.  "The roof!"  Without hesitation he jumped out the window, something white and sticky spattering against the wall behind.

              Twisting in midair, his free arm reached out and grabbed the edge of the roof.  Even as they swung back he twisted his grip, absorbing the impact of hitting the wall with his legs; and then with a grunt of exertion he pulled them both onto the roof.

              "Are we safe here?" she asked.

              "I don't know," he answered.  "But I won't let them hurt you."

              They heard a crash below: Akane's window shattering.  They ran along the roof to its furthest edge.  From this vantage point Kasumi could see the entirety of the grounds that made up her home.  She realized that Ranma's friends were down below, still fighting.  At the back of the house, near the pond: the one who always came to visit and that other girl, the cook, Ukyou, rushing in and out against the massive red thing she had seen earlier.  In the front of the house, within the gates: Ranma's two Chinese friends, leaping swiftly to-and-fro as they fought something lithe and lizard-like.

              "Kasumi," her father said.  "I'm afraid we may have to jump. . . ."

              "Oh my."  I don't think even Akane can't jump like that, she thought, not the way Ranma and the others do.  "Did that girl follow us?  I can't see her. . . ."  The roof remained empty and silent but for the two of them.

              "I don't know," he answered.

              From here, the sounds of battle were muted, the winds swirling past carrying them away.  Faintly heard cries, crashes from within, a weak rumble.  Momentary peace lengthening.

              Then everything was loud and frightening again, Father grabbing her arm and rushing back, the spider-like girl swiftly crawling onto the roof directly in front of them and moving with surprising speed and stealth.  Kasumi stumbled, skinning her knee as she fell.  A gasp of pain escaped, calling her father back.

              "Kasumi!" he cried, leaping past her and for the creature.

              "Father, no!" she cried.

              Father attacked with a desperate fury unlike any Kasumi had ever seen from him before: he ducked a leg slashing horizontally at his neck, sidestepped the second and caught the third with the thick of his arm; and braced like that he slammed a kick into the woman's stomach.  She doubled over, face twisting in pain, and he continued his forward rush, fist pounding into the side of her head, sinking into the fleshy mass around the clustered eyes.  She staggered back.  He rained a flurry of punches into her side, painful-sounding cracking of fists against chitin, and she fell back further.  Then Father ran forward, shoulder tackle slamming into the girl . . . and carrying them both over the edge.

              "Father!" she cried, her voice ripped away by the wind.

              Kasumi stood shivering and alone.  The moon hung heavy and bright in the sky overhead.  She listened but heard nothing.  Below and to her right she watched Ukyou swing her spatula at her massive foe.  The blade sank deep into the creature but it twisted and she lost her grip, and then one massive hand bashed her and sent her flying into a tree.  Ranma's other friend, Ryouga was his name, ran to her side and received a body-sized fist to his back.  He fell and it hammered him again and again, the ground cratering beneath his body.  She turned away at the sight, only to see Ranma's Chinese friends fall on the other side of the house: the lizard-woman grabbed a length of chain reaching back to the long-haired boy and, seemingly without effort, swung him about and straight into the battered-looking purpled-haired girl.  They both collapsed in a silent heap.  A loud bear-like roar echoed from within the house.  Kasumi watched as the woman below turned towards the sound.  With a single leap and a shattering of glass she broke into the second floor, disappearing from view.

              Kasumi felt something new and unpleasant rise within.  A scrabbling at the edge of the roof forced her attention.  The spider-girl returned, lifting herself over the edge, and from her heavy sack hung a thick rope of strands.  She pulled it up and hauled her father's body onto the roof.

              "Kasumi!" he said, straining against the webs wrapped securely around his arms and legs.

              Before she could move, the girl's head dropped down, and that single barbed mandible sunk into his shoulder.  He cried in pain as she bit deep into the meat of his arm, and then his head lolled to the ground.

              "Father?" she asked softly, taking a slow step forward.

              The woman stood once again and turned arachnid eyes onto her, and smiled viciously.

              Without hesitation, Kasumi rushed forward, completely ignoring the monster threatening her.  She crouched at her father's side.  "Father, are you alright?"

              "I'm sorry," he answered weakly, words thick and slurred.  "I'm so sorr. . . ."

              "Shhh," she hushed.

              His eyes fluttered shut--into unconsciousness, she noted with relief, expert fingers finding a weak but definite pulse.  Only then did she again become aware of the thing standing behind her.  Kasumi stood and turned and fixed both the clustered eyes and the single human one with a strong, cross glare.

              "Leave him alone!" she demanded.

              It stepped forward and right up to her.  Kasumi could smell the stench of its breath, her father's blood still staining those human lips, its breath rattling with a strange clicking noise within a distended throat.  It stared at her, and Kasumi stared straight back.

              "This is my family," she said.  "Please.  They're my life."

              All three arms, long and sharp and black, reached over and pressed into her from behind, the points forcing her straight up against the slender creature.  It looked up at her, and its human expression was as alien to Kasumi as the spider's.  She stood there in its grasp, trembling slightly but refusing to look away.  From below she could hear increasing sounds of combat.  Its mouth opened as if to speak, but nothing emerged.

              It roughly pushed her back, and she fell next to her father.  When Kasumi looked up again, they were alone on the roof.

Genma Saotome lay sprawled on the ground, shivering in pain and fright.  His shoulder was numb; his body ached from the beating.  He didn't want to move; he wanted to lie there and play dead and wait for everyone to go away and only get up when everything was safe and comfortable again. Impossible.  These things weren't going to go away, not without killing everyone in the house first.  Which meant he had to flee.  He wanted to.  Run away; grab the boy and just take off.  Impossible.  No way the kid would abandon his friends.  Or Akane.  Ranma loved her, even if the stubborn shit wouldn't admit it.  He would die for her.  Way things were going, maybe tonight.  Could already be.  No.  He'd know, his son, so long on the road, everything done for the boy but for himself as well.  Nodoka could try but couldn't break the bond: the boy was his.  His life.  Entirely the boy's.

              With surprising ease Genma regained his feet.  The pain he felt drained away, only the coldness in his shoulder persisting.  Nabiki's plight cut through the last of the confusion clouding his mind.  Soun stood several meters away with Kasumi, torn with indecision, trying to protect his eldest but incapable of leaving the younger behind.

              "Get her out of here," Genma called out.  "I'll save Nabiki."

              Soun turned, and their eyes met.

              You understand, don't you, Genma thought.  Just like the old days.

              "Old friend!" Soun said.

              So much to say.  Or was there?  Nothing more than, "Go!" in the end.

              Soun left, taking Kasumi with him and with the half-spider girl in close pursuit.  The other one made one last attempt for his friends then turned to face him, smiling condescendingly.  It passed one hand through thinning hair before rubbing its palms together with anticipation.  Genma felt a redoubling of fear within, mixed with revulsion at the sight of this alien little man; but beneath it all a slow burn unfelt for many a year began to simmer. . . .

              "Husband," Nodoka's tremulous voice reached him from behind.  "I'm so ashamed," she said, her hands clutching at his back.  "But I'm afraid."  He spared her a glance and she stared up at him with tearful, hopeless eyes.  Genma watched Nabiki as the young Tendo girl tugged at the thick strands wrapped around her ankles.  Their eyes met, and all he saw there was desperation and fear.

              My own wife, he thought, afraid even though I'm standing with her.  The warmth inside grew.  This arrogant Tendo girl, convinced that I'll fail her, convinced I'm nothing more than a useless panda.  An almost forgotten emotion swelled through his body: pride.  He started to shake, and the approaching monster smirked at what he took for fear, and his wife moaned with fright, and the Tendo girl sawed at her bonds with renewed panicky vigour; but the only thing rushing through Genma Saotome at that moment was rage.

              He stood tall and strong.  With a single jerk he yanked his tattered dogi top off.  He wiped the blood from his face and discarded the garment.  He cursed them: these things attacking his family, his family convinced of his uselessness, the arrogant presumption of these clueless children; but most of all he cursed himself for not just running away.

              The thing that faced him smiled, eyes widening with mock fear.  It raised both arms.  The skin along the inside of its forearms peeled back.  Two thick and serpentine tentacles slid free, hanging loosely.  They curved sinuously for a moment, coiling wetly in the air.

              Flick of the wrist.  Twin tendrils lashing out.  For his face, whip-fast.

              With nearly casual ease, Genma grabbed both from the air.

              It stared at him in shock.  The things in his hand twisted and tried to retract but could not escape his grip.  Now it was his turn to smile.

              "I don't think so," he growled.  "Come to Papa Bear!"  He yanked hard.  It stumbled forward, off balance.  Genma charged forward and delivered a punishing blow to the stomach with his knee, even as he slammed his elbow into its head with bear-like strength.  But where he expected to feel a meaty thud or the crunching of bone, there was nothing--the head crumpling like so much paper beneath the strike.  He sidestepped away, guard raised, keeping his opponent in front as it recovered from the attack.

              Slowly straightening, it turned and faced him.  The side of its head had been torn open and his knee had punctured a hole in its stomach, but beyond both gaps he saw nothing but emptiness.  Its eyes darkened with cold fury, but its thin-lipped smile only tightened.  In those spaces Genma's attacks had left in its fleshy shell there was movement: a mass of tiny shivering tendrils filling the emptiness within.

              It attacked, twin tendrils lashing out again.  Genma dodged, rushing past and landing solid hits, the body ripping beneath his punches.  Again and again he danced in and away, narrowly avoiding its counterstrikes.  But after several passes he had achieved little if any effect: it stood there riddled with fist-sized holes from which a multitude of tendrils writhed and swayed, and it seemed unbothered by the destruction of its outer skin.  Its remaining eye narrowed dangerously.

              Uh oh, Genma thought.  I think it's angry.

              It threw its arms wide, back arching and half-face raised up, and its whole body shuddered once; a half-dozen more thick tentacles erupted from its body, stabbing outwards in every direction and puncturing holes in the surrounding walls.  Genma leapt aside, narrowly avoiding being skewered, but even as he landed all eight reached for him again, whipping out with stunning speed.  He dodged and twisted and slapped those he couldn't avoid aside and tried to keep his distance.  It advanced slowly towards him, maintaining a constant barrage.  He stumbled on the broken door; every tendril curved up and stabbed straight down; and quickly catching himself he flipped aside.  It imbedded itself in the floor.  Genma took to the air.  He bounced off a wall and launched himself at his enemy.  His outstretched arm took it in the neck in a powerful clothesline, and he felt it crumple against his forearm.  When he landed, its empty shell of a head floated paper-like to the floor, reddish worm-like cilia tumbling free.

              "Ha ha!" Genma chortled.  "How'd you like--"

              Another cilia forest erupted from its exposed neck as it unerringly faced him.

              "You're not going to make this easy, are you?" he grumbled, before jumping aside as it pressed the attack with renewed vigor.  Genma found himself on the defensive.  Hurried glances showed Nabiki was finally free, pulling the idiot kendo boy away from the action and towards her room.  His wife remained stuck in the corner, eyes wide with fear . . . and pride, he realized, as she watched him, and he felt an unexpected surge of pleasure.

              A lancing pain across his forearm brought him back to reality, and he knew he was slowing down.  The numbness that still gripped his shoulder was spreading, his arms beginning to lose feeling.  Worse, he was starting to feel tired.  Shit, he thought.  The boy was right.  I've let myself go.  Right then.  That's that.  Can't fight when I'm tired, now can I?  I bought them some time, now the best thing to do now is pull a strategic retreat.

              Instead, he pulled on reserves of stamina long unused and continued the fight.  He ran in circles around his enemy and drew its attention away from his wife and Nabiki.  It scored a few weak blows, mainly wet slaps from its sinuous limbs when there were too many thrashing about to fully dodge; and while the pain was negligible, he noticed a gradual enveloping chill anywhere it touched him.  Great, he thought, the bastard's poisoning me, too.

              "This isn't fair, you know," Genma observed, breaking away for a moment.

              It paused, and though its lack of a head made it difficult to tell, it seemed to shrug apologetically.  Hundreds of small tendrils squirmed from the dozens of gaps across its body, and from within their midst reached its thicker, wetly gleaming limbs.

              "I mean, you've got poison and hollow skin and all those arms," he added conversationally, walking in a slow circle around his foe, keeping a wary eye for any sudden attacks.  "But what do I have?"

              There was a moment of intense silence.  All he could hear was the sibilant hiss of a thousand writhing limbs rubbing against each other.  He took another step.  Right about here, he thought, and stopped.  "You're a big, ugly monster," Genma said, and shrugged, "and I'm nothing but a fat, lazy--"

              It attacked, just as he smashed his foot down through the floor.  "Panda bear!" he finished, as cold water geysered up from a broken water pipe and engulfed him.  It hesitated in its attack, suddenly confronted with the massive spotted bear squeezed into the hall; but for Genma there was only a heady rush as he swept forward.  One massive paw, claws fully extended, arced forward and blasted its way through its midsection as he charged past.  There was a gory explosion as papery skin and squirming flesh splattered back.  Without pause, Genma reached down and grabbed the door to Kasumi's room; and yanking it from its hinges and lifting it overhead with both furry arms, he turned and released a fierce animalistic roar, and slammed it down on his staggered foe.

              There was a loud squish, and then silence.

              Genma's sign read, Who's the Man?  He flipped it over: I'm the Man!

              "Husband," Nodoka started, rushing to his side, and he prepared to bask in glory well deserved. I'm the Mack Daddy, he grinned, preparing to whip out another sign.  And I didn't even have to use--

              The wall at the end of the hallway exploded inwards amidst a shattering of glass.  Suddenly silhouetted against the darkness behind, he saw a lithe, serpentine figure slither closer.  It was a woman, the bottom half of her body fading into something long and lizard-like with a half-dozen legs; and on either side of her doubled breasts reached three pairs of arms.  She held wavy knives that she twirled with expert ease, and she smiled with cold-blooded cruelty.

              Great, Genma thought, just great.  Here we go again.

              Mousse sat up with a gasp, one hand clutching at his head.  Blood seeped from a long gash along his forehead.  The red trickle welled up against the rim of his glasses and ran in sticky rivulets down his face.  Pain throbbed throughout his body: unhealed injuries of yesterday compounded by the battering that snake-bitch had just dealt him and . . . Shampoo!

              He leapt to his feet, pushing through the exhaustion, and saw her lying unmoving a few meters away.  Mousse rushed over and knelt next to her, checking for injuries.  New injuries: her old ones, worse than his, were still painfully apparent, and he feared the battle had aggravated his love's unhealed wounds. Her face was pale, vibrant purple hair matted with blood, and both her bonbori lay severed in three next to her.

              "Shampoo," he said, voice trembling.  "My love?"  He reached out with one hand to shake her.

              With a sudden scream she sat up, one hand chopping for his throat.  He gulped as it stopped millimetres from his Adam's apple.  Her eyes slowly focused.  She spat to one side, spit tainted a frothy pink.

              "Stupid Mousse," she growled, struggling to her feet.  "Why you let Snake-girl get away?"

              Because I was unconscious, he thought rebelliously, just like you were; but what he said was, "I'm sorry," his voice whinier than he would have liked.

              His love gasped softly as she regained her footing.  She staggered toward a nearby tree, from which her long jagged sword protruded.  One hand clutched at her stomach.  There was redness there, the blood from her reopened injury reaching through both bandages and the silk of her dress.  He hovered at her side.  "Shampoo," he said.  "Maybe you should take a rest.  Your injuries. . . ."

             "Are mine!" she hissed, switching to Chinese.  She yanked her blade free.  Her beautiful eyes burned with fury.  "Not yours."  She took a hesitant step towards the house, then another, and again, somehow pushing past the debilitating pain she must feel.  Despite the pain of her refusal, he felt a renewed swell of love for her.  So strong, he thought, and so beautiful.  Blood and dirt and sweat did nothing to diminish her charms.  They merely added to it.  The contrast: her lovely softness curving beneath the tightness of her short dress, the luxurious sweep of hair glimmering in the moonlight; the strong tautness of her arms, the cruel hardness of her gaze.  Even after all these years my love remains undiminished.  Perhaps through this battle I can finally prove myself to her.

              "It came this way," Shampoo said, examining the ground.  "But the tracks stop.  It jumped."  She pointed to the house.  "There."  Part of the second floor wall had collapsed inward, and light beamed out of the exposed hallway into the night.  A shadow-puppet display of battle danced at the hall's edge, and Mousse realized that an intense battle must be taking place at the other end.

              "Um, excuse me?" called a faint voice from above.  Surprised, Mousse looked up and saw Akane's older sister leaning over the edge of the roof, silhouetted against the stars above.  He didn't have time to wonder how she ended up there.  "I'm sorry to bother you, but I think Ranma's friend needs help.  The boy with the bandanna?  That thing has him pinned to the ground. . . ."

              Shampoo spoke to him before he could answer.  "Go help him."

              "What?" he asked incredulously.  And leave your side?  Let you take on that thing alone?  Injured and weakened?  How can I prove myself if I'm helping that idiot pig-boy?  "Shampoo!  You can't . . . you can't be serious!"

              "Listen to me," she hissed, grabbing a handful of his long hair and yanking him down.  She fixed him with her furious gaze.  "Listen to me, you stupid man."  Mousse winced in pain but refrained from pulling free.  "I don't need your concern.  I don't need your help.  I am a warrior of the Joketsuzoku!  I have been shamed twice in as many days by defeat--I will not fail again, and I don't need the assistance of some pathetic male tainting my victory."  She pulled again on his hair, hard.  "Do I make myself clear, Mousse?"

              He stared back at her with pleading eyes but saw no softness there, no possibility for compromise.  Mousse knew then that further begging would only serve to delay them, placing his--well, comrades, if not friends--at further risk.  He gave a slight nod, the only leeway her tight grip allowed.  "I understand," he said.  All too well, he added to himself.  The pride of an Amazon.

              A chill passed through him, and he saw Shampoo shiver as she released him.  A moment later, a scintillating column of light exploded upwards in the air.  A faint, agonized cry reached them on the wind.  The light reached high into the air, slowed, flattening into a shimmering ball; and then it plummeted back down again, disappearing on the other side of the house.  There was a thunderclap explosion and the earth trembled beneath their feet.

              "Ryouga," they said, echoing each other.

              "Go," she said, and turned away.  Mousse watched her as she left, limping slightly, injuries preventing her from making the leap to the second floor.  He would have gladly helped her had she but asked.

              With a sigh, he turned away from his love to rush to the assistance of a pig.

              So cold.  So dark.  Briefly shining hope illuminated the murky hollowness of his life, but feeble illusions are so easily shattered.  He was alone, so alone--and cold, and weak.  He lay there in numb apathy, awaiting the inevitable.

              "Ryouga," whispered a voice, as if from far away.  His head lolled aside, but the voice was insistent.  "Ryouga?"

              Akari?  He opened his eyes.  He wished he hadn't.  She stared down at him with disgust and disappointment.  "How could I have been so wrong?  I thought you were strong like a pig, stubborn like a pig, manly like a pig!"  She turned away in disdain.  "How could I have said 'I love you'?  You're no pig--you're no better than a . . . than a duck!"

              "No, wait!" he called out.  "I'm not a duck!  I'm a pig--a pig!"

              "You're a pig?" said Akane, eyes widening with surprise.  "You're--you're P-Chan, aren't you?  You pervert!  Why didn't you tell me?  I would have forgiven you if you had told me, but now it's too late!  May your lies carry you down to Hell!"

              "Akane, I meant to tell you, I did, Ranma made me-"

              "What, Bacon Breath?" asked his friend.  "I never made you do nothin'." Ranma smirked condescendingly as he glanced down at Ryouga.  He nudged him with a toe.  "Man, you seem pretty much dead to me."  He shrugged.  "Oh well.  You never were much of a rival, anyway.  See, this is why I always get to be the hero.  While you're busy bleeding to death, I'm back in that there house kicking all _kinds_ of ass."  He gathered both girls into his arms and led them away.  "Don't worry, dude," he said over one shoulder.  "You just go off and die now . . . I'll keep these lovely ladies safe for ya."  He faded from view, his final words lingering in the darkness:  "Say, Akari, you're pretty hot, how'd you like to be my concubine?"

              "Nooooo!" screamed Ryouga.

              Darkness shattered.  Feeling rushed back into numbed limbs.  His body throbbed with renewed agony.  He welcomed it: life was pain; the happiness of the last few months had almost made him forget.

              The red thing loomed over him.  Somewhere off to one side Ukyou lay in an unconscious heap. One massive paw held him pinned a full half-metre into the ground.  He felt its flesh crawl against his, a thousand tiny pinpricks piercing his skin--and draining him dry.  It was sucking his blood, his energy, his very will--it was snuffing out the light and sinking him back into the darkness.  Ryouga's clawed feebly at the arm that effortlessly kept him down.  The edge of his vision began to dim once more.

              "Yes," he whispered.  "I'd almost forgotten.  Forever alone."  He stared up at the sunken, puffy eyes of the beast holding him down.  "Because of you," he said, voice deepening into a growl, suddenly strong fingers sinking into the ropy flesh at the edge of its hand.  Ryouga pushed, his entire body clenching with the effort.  With a sickening slurp, the hand lifted away.  Dozens of vein-like protrusions popped free from his bloodied chest.  Its eyes widened with surprise.  It pushed down harder . . . but Ryouga refused to budge, arms and back and sides burning with the strain of keeping the massive hand away, those hungry cilia wiggling centimetres from his skin.  "Do you hear me?" he repeated.  "You sent me back to the darkness!"

              Akari.  Akane.  Even Ranma--all taken away, again alone, numbing pain, wandering, family, friends, grey emptiness: never again.  Dark emotions surged from deep within, black rage and darker depression welling up through the layers of his being; all of it cold, iciness focusing in some abstract point below his belly; then swelling, filling him even as he continued to strain against the massive paw crushing him deeper into the earth.  A fragile moment, eyes rolling back and body suddenly absent as the entirety of his consciousness focused on restraining that bubble swollen to its tenuous maximum; impossible to hold back: the bubble burst.

              Ryouga gasped as the river of his emotions rushed torrentially through his body, limbs singing with returned sensation; and the words tore themselves from his lips:

              "Shishi Houkou Dan!"

              His mind sank even as his depression tore free from his outstretched hands.  The release of that fullness left an emotional wasteland in its wake.  There was a moment absent of time before he could bring himself to even open his eyes.

              He lay at the bottom of a deep, bloodied crater.  He struggled to stand: first one knee, a deep breath, and finally he did it, swaying unsteadily.  His shirt was mere tatters, his torso a crimson expanse of seeping wounds.  For several seconds Ryouga stood there, confused, mind clouded by loss of blood and the aftermath of his attack.

              The gurgling howl of pain snapped him back to attention.  Pulling himself free of the rubble, he quickly found his enemy.  It was standing several meters away, clutching at the stump of its right arm. Head lifted to the stars, it screamed into the night.

              "How'd you like that?" Ryouga snarled.

              It dropped its gaze to fix him with pudgy eyes burning with fury.  Its cry echoed a final time across the neighbourhood.

              "There's plenty more where that came from!"

              The martial artist snapped his arms forward, palms outwards, reaching again for the dark well lurking deep within.  It remained far from empty.  It didn't respond as overwhelmingly as before, but there yet remained a lifetime of pain to share with his enemy.  It charged forward, lumbering across the distance as it picked up speed, earth trembling beneath its feet.  Ki rushed through Ryouga's body as he again yelled, "Shishi Houkou Dan!"

              His projectile splashed against its huge chest--and broke, like waves against breakers; and it crashed through his attack and crushed its remaining fist into his chest.  It felt like a stone jackhammer, sharp and jagged, the draining softness of earlier gone, and Ryouga sailed back before slamming into the ground.  Dazed, it took him a moment to recover, and even as he sat up it found him again with a wide backhand.  It might as well have slapped him with a boulder.  The impact sent him flying into a tree, and it splintered behind him.  Stunned and numb, he slumped to the ground.

              The ringing in his ears and spots before his eyes made Ryouga only vaguely aware of his opponent's heavy approach.  He knew he had to move, but his body refused to respond.  Just another few seconds, he thought, I just have to catch my breath. . . .  Instinct told him he didn't have the time.  Then the pain ebbed and his vision cleared, and he saw the fist coming, and knew it was too late. . . .

              Something coiled around his chest and arm and yanked him away, the massive fist narrowly missing and pulverizing the remaining tree stump into matchsticks.  Ryouga hit the ground and finally slid to a stop.  Laying on his back, he stared up at his unexpected saviour.

              "You're not very good at this, are you?" Mousse asked, and smirked.

              Ryouga shrugged off the Chinese fighter's lasso and struggled to his feet.  "Very funny."

              "Need some help?"

              "I won't say no."

              The creature, after a moment's confusion, turned towards them.  Whereas before it had been a shambling mound of soft, dripping flesh, now it resembled a lumbering collection of jagged edges, a towering three-meter giant made of crimson rock.  It clenched its remaining fist into a body-sized boulder and took a step towards them.

              Mousse sent a flurry of knives flying its way.  With a chorus of sharp clangs, they bounced off without any effect.

              "Great help," Ryouga said, as it took another step towards them.

              "You got any better ideas?" Mousse retorted.

              "You're asking me?  I thought _you_ were the sneaky one," he answered, but his mind was racing elsewhere, considering the possibilities.  Its skin was like rock; his ki-blast hit hard, but did nothing. What if he hit it harder?--that was always a good tactic!  He was faster than it--much faster, thanks to two years of fighting with Ranma.  He even had a new technique he was sure could work.  Squinting, he looked closer.  He glanced down and pulled a tiny splinter of its fist from his chest.

              "Here we go," Mousse muttered, a giant mace popping into his hand.

              "Wait!" Ryouga said, raising his hand.  "I've got an idea!"

              "Great."

              "Trust me.  You got anymore of those lassos?  The ones with the spikes at the end?"

              "Heh.  I'm sure I've got a few kicking around somewhere."

              "Get 'em ready!  We're gonna pin this bastard down."

              Ryouga stepped forward, again reaching for the unhappiness he carried inside.  He squared off his opponent.  It stared down at him with a jagged smile and raised its fist high in the air.

              "I really wanted to save this new technique for my next real fight with Ranma," Ryouga told it.  "But I guess you'll have to do!  Shishi Hijuuken!"

              Its fist crashed down, shattering the earth as Ryouga danced aside and within its reach.  From the wellspring of his depression surged the familiar heaviness--but instead of concentrating it in a ball, he coalesced it around his body, wrapping himself in a cloak of air.  Heavy air: for a moment, nearly too heavy, pinning him to the spot.  With his entire body straining against the weight, he punched forward, super-compressed and emotionally-charged air flowing forward and gathering around his fist . . . the strain was enormous, knuckles popping and his hands felt as if they were being crushed . . . and then his air-wrapped ki-heavy punch thudded into its rocky hide.  There was a loud crack--its skin, not his hand--and then Ryouga's second punch connected and the thin fracture split wide open.

              Releasing his depression and suddenly feeling featherlight, Ryouga leapt back as it twisted and swept its hand through where he had been.

              "Now Mousse!"

              Blind outside of combat, the Master of Hidden Weapons proved amazingly accurate when necessary.  What looked like a harpoon trailing a metal cable found Ryouga's opening and imbedded itself in the softness beneath.

              "Quick!  Before it can yank it out!" Mousse yelled.

              "Thanks for the update," Ryouga muttered, and jumped back in.

              It was very touch-and-go.  The "Lion Hide Heavy Punch' proved far more tiring than he had expected, quickly draining his endurance and emotional reserves--oh well, he thought, punching another hole in its side, not bad for a first combat trial.  Good thing I didn't save it for Ranma.  I hadn't expected the attack to momentarily pin me to the ground like that: against anyone smarter or faster, they would've cleaned the floor with me.

              But as Ryouga jumped back one final time, nearly falling over from exhaustion, he noted with satisfaction that his plan had gone as expected.  Mousse had planted a dozen or more chains, whips, ropes, and giant-sized yoyos into its body, and tied the other ends down to every solid object scattered across the Tendo backyard.  At the centre of the maze of crisscrossing line strained the captured beast.

              "Great!" Mousse said, tying off a final knot.

              "Thanks."

              "Now what?"

              "Huh?"

              Mousse stared at him in disbelief.  "_This_ was your plan?"

              "Hey!  It worked, didn't it?"

              With a loud grunt, the creature yanked one of its bonds free.

              "Oh," Ryouga said.

              "Tying it down won't do.  I'm almost out of lines, anyway.  We have to _kill_ it, not restrain it.  And quickly--I have to get back to Shampoo!"

              "Before it gets free, you mean," the bandanna'd boy muttered.  He absently pried another piece of its shrapnelled flesh free from his knuckles.

              From behind thick glasses, Mousse's eyes widened.  "What's that?"

              Ryouga shrugged and tossed it over, as their enemy roared and took a heavy step their way, uprooting a tree.  "Its skin.  I figured I could crack it open and pin it down when I saw it wasn't made of rock at all: it just scabbed over--I guess all that blood makes a pretty hard shell of dead skin."

              Mousse blinked.  "Dead?  As in, 'not alive'?"

              "Yeah.  But the inside's still all bloody and soft."

              "But the outside isn't?"

              "Naw.  Just dead skin, dried blood."  He eyed the beast nervously.  "We should really-"

              "What do you with dead things, Ryouga?"

              "Bury them?  Listen--"

              "No, you idiot!  You blow them up!"

              "Maybe in China you do, you sicko, but in Japan we . . . blow them up?"

              Mousse nodded, and smiled nastily.  "Go do your thing, Piggie."

              Ryouga bared his fangs in return.  "And you do yours, Duck Boy."

             With a howl, it finally freed itself of the last of its bonds.  Blood seeped from numerous cracks in its shell, but it seemed otherwise unhurt.  Not for long, Ryouga thought.  We're putting you down for good.  Running to meet its charge, he stumbled, exhaustion suddenly catching up to him.  If I don't screw up, he added.  I think I've only got one chance at this. . . .

              He leapt for its chest, index finger extended, yelling, "Bakusai Te--"

              With unexpected speed, its hand swept across and snagged him out of the air.  Iron-strong fingers curled around his body and slammed him into the ground.  Without letting him go, it raised him in the air and held him in its giant grip.  It began to squeeze.

              A cry of pain escape Ryouga's lips.  He could feel his bones grinding, creaking, ribs rubbing together, on the edge of snapping . . . it felt like something popped inside and blood erupted from his mouth, and he sagged against its grip, nearly unconscious.  From far away, it seemed he could hear the sound of metal clanging ineffectually off of stone.

              Pain eased for a second as it brought Ryouga up to head level.  Tiny liquid eyes buried deep inside its head watched him with amusement as he slumped in its hand.  It grinned and opened its mouth wide, and bit forward.

              The martial artist reached out one trembling hand and tapped it on the nose.  "--Ten Ketsu," he whispered.

              A latticework of hairline fissures spread across its face.  Red fluid geysered from amidst the widening cracks, spraying out in high-pressured sheets--a moment later, its face exploded.  Ryouga saw swirling fibrous redness sunken deep within shattering flesh, and even further in he glimpsed a human skull, jaw extended wide in a voiceless expression of pain.  It staggered and fell backwards, hitting the ground with a loud crash; suddenly free, Ryouga tumbled through the air like a rag doll.  He landed flat on its chest as it struggled to regain its feet, globs of crimson flesh spilling from its neck.  With the last of his rapidly fading strength, he tapped it over the solar plexus.

              Its chest collapsed with a gory explosion.  Ryouga again fell back, sliding off its gaping torso.  As darkness rose to engulf him he had a final sight of Mousse, hovering high overhead, robes thrown open, glasses glinting in the moonlight, arms spread wide, as he yelled, "Muusuno Furumonti Totsu," and an entire arsenal of sharply gleaming weapons stabbed straight down.

              "Tatewaki Kuno fights on!"  With these words the mighty kendoist shot to his feet, wooden blade held at the ready, hawk-like eyes darting about in search of his enemy.  "Wither is that evilly arachnid, yet strangely compelling, woman?"

              "About time you woke up," muttered a voice at his side.  He glanced back and saw his charge, the mercenary Nabiki Tendo, standing next to a door.  Judging by pictures she had shown him previously, he stood in her very bedroom.  Sounds of ongoing combat slowly filtered in through the ringing in his ears. He quickly strode to her side.  "The battle yet rages?"

              Nabiki nodded.  "I don't know where the others are.  Mr. Saotome is out there holding two of them off on his own."  She toed the door open a crack.  "I had no idea the old sack of lard still had it in him."

              Kuno peered into the hallway.  The father of the vile sorcerer Saotome moved with a speed and grace that belied his bulk.  He danced between twin spouts of water spraying from holes in the floor, and slipped past the attacks of his multiple enemies.  The old man laughed as he pushed off a wall and bounced off the head of the vile spider-woman; he spring-boarded forward and planted his foot in the face of another woman, this one resembling a serpentine lizard.  The martial artist fought with either a genius' skill or an idiot's disregard--being the father of the sorcerer Saotome, he rather suspected the second--but either way, he was successfully holding his own.  For the moment: to Kuno's trained eye it was apparent that Saotome's father's strength was rapidly flagging.

              "How can I sit idly by whilst others risk their lives?  Unforgivable!" he stated, throwing wide the door.  "I return to battle!"

              "Kuno, no, wait!" Nabiki Tendo exclaimed behind him,  "Remember the plan!"  He disregarded her concern.  True warriors disregard planning; his place was in battle!  He leapt forward, attacking the nearest foe: the newly encountered lizard-woman.

              "Take this!" he exclaimed, and his blade lashed out, scoring a strong slash across its back.  Scales split and greenish ichors sprayed beneath his might.  "A very palpable hit!"

              With blinding speed the creature before him spun around.  He had a glimpse of a woman's face--cold, glassy eyes like a snake's, sharp features, long fluttering tongue--before sharp metal flashed across his vision.  He stumbled back a step, then glanced down.  His bokken held together a moment before falling into two.  The advancing monster smiled cruelly.

              Kuno returned an arrogant smile of his own.  "Ah ha!  You think you are the first to slice my might bokken in two?"  He caught the two fragments and twirled them expertly in his hands.  "The great Tatewaki adapts and battles on!"

              He leapt to the attack once more, noting that it skilfully wielded four blades between six hands; a daunting advantage, certainly, but he felt no fear.  'Twas a modern-day samurai's duty to defeat such evils!  He parried the beast's opening thrust and riposted, engaging two other flashing knives with the broken blade he wielded in his left hand.  Another strike, a flurry of blocks, twisting aside, stabbing down with both half-bokkens: and it wasn't there, slithering aside with lightning speed.  Before he could track it, pain slashed across his left forearm--a wound delivered in passing.

              "Little samurai boy," it hissed, smiling.  "I'll enjoy feasting upon your entrails."

              His nose wrinkled with distaste.  "I'll not have my innards eaten by one of such low stock as you," he replied.  "The mighty Tatewaki's insides are for those with a refined palate!"  He charged forward once again--or tried to, suddenly finding his movement arrested.  He looked down and found its long tail wrapped securely about his leg.

              "The Great Father should have made me a cat," it said.  "For I do so enjoy playing with my food."

              A savage yank and Kuno found himself lifted and thrown across the hall, crashing painfully into the opposing wall.  Another pull, slamming into the ceiling, then down, shoulder going numb as it cracked the floor open.  A final toss and he went flying into Nabiki's door.  It shattered and he tumbled into her room.

              Through blurry eyes he saw Akane's sister screaming at him, lips forming unheard words; then his vision was filled with the form of his enemy.  Slender feminine arms possessing surprising strength lifted him up.

              "You weren't much fun at all," it said.  "Perhaps I'll save you for my sister."  Then the world tilted and he felt multiple arms bash him into the floor.  He blacked out.

              It has misjudged the mighty Tatewaki Kuno's head, was his first thought upon regaining consciousness a few moments later.  'Tis made of stronger stuff than mere wood!  He quickly noted his position: he half-dangled into the room below, wedged between planks of wood, his posterior ingloriously protruding into Nabiki's bedchamber.  He felt something--perhaps its tail--cruelly slap his rear before leaving.

              That fiend shall pay for this ignoble treatment of my backside, he raged.  Yet how can I continue this battle?  It destroyed my mighty bokken!

              He opened his eyes.  "Hullo," he whispered.  A mere half-meter away, the Saotome family katana lay imbedded in the ceiling.

              The snake-woman slowly turned about, Akane's borrowed barbell tumbling from its perch atop the monster's head.  Nabiki stared numbly at her own hand.  Did I just throw that? she asked herself.  For Kuno?  It slowly approached, half-walking half-slithering, head bobbing from side to side as if trying to get a better perspective on its prey.  A trickle of something green seeped from its back, beading along the curve of her shoulders and catching along the inner sweep of the bottom pair of breasts.  It didn't seem to care, smirking disdainfully as Nabiki backed away, trembling.

              "Um . . . I'm sorry?" she suggested hopefully.  She tried to find some familiar features, anything recognizable beneath the reptilian sheen, but this new attacker drew a complete blank.  Why couldn't it be an air-headed bimbo pop-star like the last one?  Nabiki couldn't think of any way to distract this one.  Would anyone even come to her rescue if she did?  How much longer could Genma last; where the hell was Ranma anyway; what about all those other goon friends of his who kept wrecking the house?  If only Kuno hadn't charged off --their backup plan was so tantalizingly close. . . .

              Less than a meter away it halted, and in its reptilian features Nabiki thought she detected some confusion.  Its long, forked tongue flickered rapidly in the air.  That's how snakes smell, isn't it? she thought.  Smell: hadn't Ranma said something about them tracking Akane by the scent she left on him?  And that they wanted to capture her?  Maybe if this thing thought she was Akane. . . .

              "Um, hi," Nabiki said, trying a hesitant wave.  "I don't think we've met.  My name's Akane Tendo?"

              It paused, glassy eyes boring into her.  It fingered the edge of one of its blades, its tongue flicking tentatively.  "Is that s-so?" it asked with a sibilant hiss.

              "Yup, you betcha.  The all-important youngest Tendo sister, that's me!"

              "I'm s-so glad I found you firsst," it said.  "Father would betray the family through his ambition, but I will not s-stand by as he brings ruin upon uss all."  A sinking feeling grew in Nabiki's stomach.  "I shall reap the reward of your death and overthrow Akuji; I shall usurp my elder brother'ss place and asssume leadership of the family!  Through your death I shall become clan Mother!"

              "Death?" Nabiki squeaked.

              It smiled.  Before she could move it darted forward, grabbing her by the shoulders with its free hands.  It effortlessly picked her up and slammed her against the wall.  "Don't worry," it said.  "This will hurt a lot."

              Nabiki did the only thing she could think of: she screamed, loud and hard.  Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought: this is embarrassing.  Two years of this shit, and I never screamed once.  C'mon Kuno, get your ass out of the floor and save me!

              "Unhand her, vile fiend!"

              My hero.

              With a loud hiss the snake-woman spun about, tossing Nabiki aside.  Kuno stood by the hole in the floor, the Saotome katana held low and ready.  Bare-chested, his skin gleamed in the faint light, and his dark gaze smouldered with fury.  "Though this blade be unworthy of the honour, it shall be the vehicle of my vengeance: none may abuse the mighty Tatewaki Kuno's posterior and live!  Feel my fury . . . Strike!"

              The kendoist darted forward, metal point stabbing rapidly.  His foe parried and reposted and attacked with her other knives; but Kuno countered every strike and held the monster at bay amidst a shower of sparks and ringing metal.  Nabiki watched breathlessly as her samurai-sans-shining-armour struggled for dominance.  He really _has_ gotten better, she thought, inching away from the fight.

              "You shall not s-stand in the way of my ascendancy!" it snarled, and even as its attacks became more furious its tail lashed out for Nabiki.  She tried to escape but was too slow; she found herself picked up and viciously thrown against the wall.  She bounced off and hit the ground hard and lay there in pain. An acrid taste filled her mouth--blood.  That's it, she thought.  The bitch is going down.

              Kuno cried out.  With an unexpected burst of speed, a blade slipped through his defences and stabbed him in the shoulder.  He staggered; deep slashes appeared across his chest as it blurred forward, and a sudden punch sent him sprawling into the wall.  He slumped to the ground, dazed.  The snake-woman slithered towards him, knives poised for a killing blow.

              "Yo, She-Witch!" Nabiki called out.  She staggered across the room, using the wall for support. She spat to one side and fingered her swollen, cracked lip.  "Let's go."

              It snarled and lunged forward, just as Nabiki called out, "Tendo Special Attack!"  She threw her closet door open and leaped to the side, thinking, I've always wanted to say that!

              The beast screeched to a halt as the trap was triggered, but it was unable to avoid the avalanche pouring from the closet.  It tried backing away, desperately slashing and blocking with multiple blades, but to no avail.  It found itself overwhelmed.  A moment later the deluge abated.  Unharmed, it stood there and blinked amidst a devastation of flowing red, spattered green, and black seeds.  It stared dumbfounded at the chunks of watermelon clinging to it scales, the pieces speared by her knives, and the whole melons she held in each hand.

              "I have seen the evil," growled a voice from behind, "and it is green!"  Kuno stood once again, and shadows danced across the room as he blazed with unholy fury.  His eyes flared red and he raised the Saotome blade overhead.  "Vile demon fruit!  Red infernal juices and black hellspawn seeds!  You mock me!  You mock me with your delicious ripeness!  Death to you--DEATH!"

              Nabiki almost felt sorry for the creature as it charged forward to meet Kuno's ranting and raving. She sat back and idly dabbed at her swollen lip, and watched as first one limb, then another, flew across the room.  Not really, she amended.  Damn thing gave me a fat lip.  She sat back and watched as Kuno, screaming about the 'dire plumpness of the dark gardens of the underworld', whittled the creature down to a single arm within a minute.  Only once the ichors and blood had washed the melon away did Kuno lose interest, and he started attacking the fruit scattered about the room.  With a screech it broke away.  It crashed through a wall and disappeared from sight.

              Darn, it got away, Nabiki thought, keeping well clear of Kuno's slashing disposal of the remaining watermelons.  Or not, she added, as a loud trailing squeal rang out, and was abruptly cut off.  Shampoo stepped through the hole in the wall a moment later.  Her long, jagged blade dripped gore.  The Amazon looked disappointed.

              "Hey, Shampoo," Nabiki said, waving her in.

              "Shampoo sad," the Amazon said, keeping a wary eye on the kendoist.  "Silly Stick-Boy made kill too easy."

              Nabiki shrugged and was about to try and calm Kuno down, when a scream echoed through the house.  Loud and pained, it was chilling to hear and she stood in stunned silence until, reduced to a hoarse croak, the cry died out.  She met Shampoo's alarmed gaze, mirrored it.

              "Ranma?"

              Pulse pounding, blood soaring, muscles thrumming with triumphant energy, exhaustion, pain, injuries somehow made irrelevant, a decade of fear lifted away, overrun, buried by the violent joy coursing through his body: Genma Saotome felt alive for the first time in years.  He laughed as he slid beneath the spider's scything leg, bounced off a wall, and head-butted the snake; he balanced there head-to-head for a second, giggled, then thumbed his nose at his opponents and tumbled away.  He would leap into the spout of cold water and slam an enemy back; hot water and returned nimbleness helped him dodge away.

              He knew he couldn't keep it up forever--he was amazed he had lasted as long as he had.  Alone against two opponents: even the boy had barely survived last night's fight--hell, he had needed help!  You've still got it, Genma, he told himself, you're still The Man!  The last decade spent training Ranma, spent in flight from his own wife, the constant dodging of responsibility, gnawing fear, unable to face the same conflict his own son now faced: all of it somehow irrelevant, his own core rediscovered.  The greatest victories of recent memory had been Ranma's victories: watching his son master a technique overnight, watching the boy tear a God down from the skies, and thinking, 'I created that, I trained that'; but always vicarious thrills once removed, another's accomplishments, his blood but not _his_ . . . somewhere in the last twenty years, Genma realized, I forgot myself, I lost my own path.

             Sliding side-thrust, slamming the spider-girl into the wall, twisting around to meet the snake-girl's attack and finding it gone, distracted by the Kendo boy's attack.  Good, he thought, now I can put this first one down, make her regret returning, I hope Soun's okay, if this bitch hurt him I'll rip those legs off . . . but even as Genma turned back to his enemy there was an eruption from behind, the door he had earlier slammed down thrown up and hurled his way.  The martial-artist met the door with a loud shout, hand knifing down and slicing the wood in two.  Stepping through, he saw his earlier opponent.  Any illusion of humanity was gone, not even a shell remained: a squirming mass of tendrils and flailing tentacles shambled his way, and from within the whole he glimpsed a snapping, jagged jaw.

              Good, he thought, I wouldn't want this to get _too_ easy. . . .  He stood alone.  By his orders even his wife was gone.  His son, elsewhere, protecting the girl he loved.  Tendo, comrade of youth, maybe already fallen.  The torn expanse of hallway, open to the outside, other rooms, walls shattered, sounds of battle nearby, and on either side these monsters; and his breathing was laboured, battle euphoria slipping, pain forcing itself onto him, and a dread awareness that there was no way he could win this, not without breaking promises made long ago, settled upon him like a heavy weight.

              You've broken enough promises in your lifetime, Genma, he told himself.  But not this one.  He still wanted to run: who could blame him?  He had created the Saotome Special Technique for just this occasion.  But he knew the consequences--with heated blood singing in his ears, he could hardly ignore them as usual.  If he didn't keep these two busy, they would turn to other targets: Tendo's daughters, that useless kendo boy, even those Chinese kids would be slaughtered before the added onslaught.  But where youth fails, maybe a fat old panda can shoulder the weight, eh, Genma old boy?  With a wide smile he quelled the final urge for flight, and stepped forward.

              "Welcome back," he said to the pile of quivering limbs.  He gave a short bow to the spider-girl. "Let's finish this, shall we?"

              Genma Saotome charged back into battle:  Take 'em quick forward rush the girl is weaker of the two at a time to show everyone what I'm able of taking these two on one was almost too much for the boy is finally learning.  Careful now focus and how'd you like that, bitch, woops, too close, how the hell do I hurt this thing?  Technique.  Jab jab sidestep cross backstep twisting uppercut block block block block weave closer cross backhand hopping back crescent kick--pain, damn it got me, arm numb, not enough, not enough, technique.  No.  Lines drawn years ago, I shouldn't have told the boy, his own choice now.  Duck: yeah, that's right, tangle that thing with your own webs, girl!  Heh heh.  Ouch--damn, it's strong, already free, no way I'm not done teaching the boy knows so little time left secrets he'll never learn my legacy is right now dammit I won't lose to these things are monsters; I've seen worse.  Get the hell over here, girl, think that'll stop me, take this and this and up you go, yeah, Panda Airways one way flight to the other thing, that's _gotta_ hurt!  No?  No?  Then again and again again again again; go down already!  A scream?  Nabiki . . . what, do I have to save everyone myself?  Focus--Un.  That hurt.  Pull it together, Genma.  Just a little longer.  Where's the boy?  He'd be proud of his old man now.  Wouldn't he?  I held three of these things off.  Kept the girl's sisters alive.  Kept the wife safe.  Nodoka, you see, not a failure.  Still the man you fell in love with.  But the kid's mine.  You'll know after tonight.  I'm through running.

              Genma Saotome stood wearily amidst the carnage of the second floor of the Tendo residence.  He felt distanced from his own body, light-headed and aloof.  Seemingly from afar he viewed himself.  I look terrible, he thought.  The barest suggestion of a dogi hung in tatters from his battered frame.  Blood slowly seeped from a dozen wounds across his bodies--bites and slashes, gouges and punctures--and he was awash in red.  Shoulders hunched, arms hanging limply, curved back: only the hard glitter in his eyes showed his continued defiance.  With some reluctance he forced those heavy legs into movement; every action seemed removed, unfelt through the pervasive poisoned numbness gripping his body.

              At least they don't look so hot either, he thought.  I can still take them.  Yeah.  Of course I can.  He attacked, sluggishly and with what felt like a kitten's strength.  A long limb coiled around his waist and picked him up.  It slammed him into the ground.  He hardly felt it.  He broke free; he didn't know how.  Something slammed across his head.  He fell to one knee.  The spider-girl raised one glinting limb.  Their eyes met: amidst the wreckage of her face, the broken nose and pulped clusters, a single human eye wept in pain and hopelessness.  Yeah, great, thanks, he thought wryly, as the leg stabbed straight for his chest.

              Then the monster stopped.  Its eye dimmed and rolled up in unconsciousness.  It rocked to one side.  Akane stood there, jaw set with determination, second fist hammering down into the back of its head.  I can't believe it, he thought.  Saved by the girl.  She looked down at him in concern.  "Are you okay, Mr. Saotome?"

              Do I _look_ okay? he was going to answer, when he saw the thing approaching behind her.  Time seemed to stop.  Akane stood as if frozen.  His senses exploded outwards, and for a moment his body resonated powerfully with returned awareness, a heady mixture of pain and potentiality that Genma had only felt rarely before, and not once in over two decades.  He could have cried with pleasure, with joy--I forgot! he wanted to cry.  For a moment--there was nothing but the moment, and he felt terribly alive within it--it seemed he could grasp the entirety of the battle around him: the wounded tentacled thing behind him, Kuno and Shampoo and Nabiki nearby, his best friend alive on the roof, Akane's eyes caught between concern and surprise, even the boys and that cook outside, surrounding the black man from earlier; and his son, struggling to his feet . . . too far, and too late.  Too late.  Son.  His life.  Entirely the boy's.

              Everything stood immobile outside of that savagely held second, except for himself--and the thing coming up behind Akane.  It walked forward at an insultingly casual pace, eyes locked on the back of the girl's head.  It came to a stop behind her, both mantis-like arms poised overhead, fingers held together spear-like.  It stabbed down.  With a loud roar that came from the very depths of his being, the martial artist regained his feet and, shoving Akane aside, he slammed the strongest kick he could muster into the thing's side.

              There was a loud crack.  He felt bone shatter: its ribs, his own leg.  It staggered but did not fall.  Only then did Genma look down and notice the arm thrust through his chest.  Somehow, he felt numb to the pain.

              "Fool," the thing whispered to him.

              "Not anymore," he answered.

              Smiling broadly, Genma Saotome let go of the moment.

              Ranma staggered to his feet.  He felt dizzy, vision blurred, and with his first few steps he wobbled into a wall.  He touched the side of his head and found it wet with blood.  Burgeoning panic and the impulse to do something, the instinct that everything had gone terribly wrong, filled him; but his need slammed against the pain in his head and he held himself trembling against the wall, fingers digging into the wood, trying to think, think his way through the pain--what was missing?

              Where was Akane?  Her absence shattered his confusion.  He sprinted up the stairs, turned the corner. . . .

              And saw his father.  On his knees, slumped back with his head nearly touching the floor . . . his chest a bloody ruin.  Ranma's enemy from earlier stood over his father, one hand stained crimson.  Akane stumbled away, eyes wide with disbelief.  Mouth open with a silent scream that wouldn't come.  The tall man shoved the bloodied body away, and Genma fell with a dull thud at Ranma's feet.

              "Pop?" he said, voice soft.  He kneeled next to his father.  "Dad?'

              His father's eyes flickered open. "Hey, Son. . . ."

              "Shit, Dad, no, oh man no, this can't . . . hold in there, Pop, c'mon-"

              "Ranma-"

              "Don't talk, Pop, we'll-"

              "Shut up, Boy!  I'm trying to pass on my wisdom here!"

              Ranma nodded.

              "Remember the riddle?  Yesterday's story?"

              "With the stupid tiger and--"  Ranma swallowed, and nodded again.

              Genma gave a small chuckle, and winced.  "I was right.  I was right!  I ate the strawberry, Son . . . and it's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted."  His eyes slowly drooped shut, and his head lolled to one side.

              "Dad?"  Ranma rocked his dad.  "Father?"  There was no response.  He shook him again.  Nothing.  He looked at the ruined body before him, bloodied, broken, empty.  Genma Saotome was dead.  His father was dead.  "C'mon, Pop," he tried again, giving the body a final shove.  "Get up, you shitty old man!"

              "Ranma?"  He turned hopeless eyes to Akane.  She looked at him with empathic grief.  He turned from her to the two creatures standing mere meters away.  Watching his pain.  Responsible for his father's death.  Ranma slowly rose to his feet.  He looked at his father's battered corpse; at his fiancee; at the ruins of the Tendo household, his home; and then back at his father.

              His father was dead.

              He didn't know where it came from; he was hardly aware of doing it.  Ranma screamed, head tilted back, arms thrown wide, frustration and anger tearing through him, this was impossible, his father was dead, what did these things _want_, his father was dead, rage mingled with self-loathing infused every fibre of his being, his father was _dead_, he should have been here, fought harder, stronger, his father. . . . was dead.  It's my fault, he thought, the cry dying in his throat.  Pop even told me.  His final lesson.  He looked down at his father one last time.  "You were right, Pop."

              No more holding back.

              "Don't worry," said a harsh voice.  The mantis-like man from before.  "You will soon you're your father, boy."  A blink, and it appeared before him.  Arms poised to strike.  Akane's cry reached Ranma from somewhere far away.  An immensely strong hand speared forward with its full, impossible speed.

              Ranma caught the hand at the wrist.  He stopped it a few centimetres from his chest.  Only then did he look up.  Sunken eyes widened in a very human expression of surprise--and fear.  Ranma could feel the arm in his grasp straining to pull away.  It was strong, but at this moment nowhere strong enough.  Ranma searched its face and saw in its sudden terror a fragmented reflection of what his own visage must resemble.  He noted the flailing mass of tentacles squirming a few meters behind, and thought to himself, It all ends here.

              "My name is Ranma Saotome," he said.  "You killed my father.  Prepare to die."

              The martial artist flowed forward.  He felt colder than ever before, his own Soul of Ice brought to a new level; and through that chill he reached for his father's techniques.  Pop's a genius, he thought; was a genius, he amended, and with the faintest hint of a grim smile he opened himself fully to the power of the Umisen-ken and the Yamasen-ken.

              He effortlessly slipped phantom-like within his opponent's reach.  Ranma lunged forward with twin spear-hands of his own.  Metal-strong flesh of before parted like paper.  Both hands plunged deep into the creature's chest.

              Geimon Tetsusen Shi, he told himself.

              With a fierce kiai he threw his arms wide, as he kicked forward with all his strength.  In an explosion of blood and gore, the body in front of him ripped asunder, and spraying chunks of torso were thrown in a wide arc across the hall.  He stepped down and through the expanding crimson cloud.

              Mouko Kaimon Ha.

              The alien mass before him didn't move.  Whether frozen with fear or simply too slow to react, it was irrelevant to Ranma.  Arms still thrown wide from his father's "Fierce Tiger Opening Gate Blow" slammed together in a fierce embrace.  The mass squirmed and flailed and something hard at the center snapped and bit, and it thrashed fiercely in an attempt to break free of Ranma's crushing squeeze.  He hugged the creature and tightened his grapple until he heard something crack.  Both his hands rested on either side of something hard and skeletal found at the core of his enemy.  He felt it split and crumble beneath his father's attack.

              Kaichuu Houjiyu Satsu.

              He reached past the Soul of Ice for something stronger, angrier--and he found a seething wellspring of rage at his disposal.  It was hot and fierce and demanded release.  How long had he restrained this power, and to what end?  The fullness of it felt briefly in the fight with Saffron, but denied, frightened at what it suggested.  A mere hint of it touched in the fight last night--the demands of necessity, but still he had been too cowardly to accept the possibilities.

              If he had, his father would still be alive.  Ranma immersed himself fully into his rage.  It flowed through him, hot and powerful, bitter.  The potential.  That instant last night; the fragment glimpsed just before he threw Saffron down: the same, fleeting moments in which anything seemed possible, reaching beyond the frail limitation of human flesh.  Standing within it, the moment no longer seemed so ephemeral.

              Ranma let go of the moment.  Twin blasts of unbridled energy poured from his hands.  They met in a bright detonation of light and power, and Ranma threw his arms wide and let the torrent escape in a brilliant swath of expanding destruction.

              Kanseikei Mouko Takabisha.

              "I'm sorry, Pop," he whispered, and dropped to one knee.  Eyes closed, fists clenched, he shuddered with both the release and with something else he was afraid to admit: heady pleasure.  For an indefinite period it seemed all he could do was crouch there and shake, wracked with emotions he could neither restrain nor fully understand.  The tremors finally subsided, and with a trembling breath he wearily rose to his feet.  Ranma opened his eyes.

              A corner of the house was gone.  His "Complete Fierce Tiger's Dominance' had ripped Happosai's guest room away.  The night air billowing in felt cool against his feverish skin.  The chill of before was gone: now he felt hot.  His rage was far from spent.  He turned back towards the house.

              His friends were there: Kuno, Shampoo, Nabiki.  His mother.  And Akane.  They all watched him with wide eyes, and behind the shock he recognized fear.  Perception pulled back, and only then did he become fully aware of the destruction he had wrought.  His ki-blast had reduced the second creature to a fine paste spread across the floor and walls.  Father's Yamasen-ken techniques had ripped the desiccated 'eldest brother' into four, and scattered the bleeding portions in different directions.  Innards coiled and spread across the floor.  His clothes were soaked in others' blood.  A part of him quailed in horror at what he had just done; but mostly he took grim pleasure in his father's vengeance.

              Ranma knelt by his father's body, only dimly aware of his mother coming to his side.  He wanted to shed tears, but nothing would come.  He stayed there by Genma's side holding one limp hand, head bowed in silence.  He sunk himself deeper into his rage, and grew hotter with every passing moment.

              The young man knelt next to his dead father.  His mother stood at his side, and by her expression it was clear she yearned to comfort him.  Akane recognized Ms. Saotome's impulse, for she felt it herself.  But there was no approaching Ranma.  Not now.  He was lost in his grief--and through his pain, he had found anger.  She had seen it; they all had.  The absolute ease with which he had slaughtered his opponents, and the extreme violence used: she never would have thought Ranma capable of such brutality.

              But then, she had only been dimly aware of his actions atop Mt. Phoenix.  The possibility of her death had driven him to reluctantly kill before; the sight of Mr. Saotome's torn body pushed him over the edge.  Earlier tonight, under the influence of the initial attack, she had seen a glimmer of the anger her fiance was capable of.  Now he revealed it in full, and Akane felt frightened.

              There was a loud crash from below.  Oh no, she thought, it's not over!  There were four accounted for here, but what of Ryouga's opponent and Cologne's target--were they still alive?

              The others rushed for the stairs, cursing as they went.  Akane hesitated, unable to pull her eyes away from Ranma.  There was a whispered exchange between mother and son; and after a final moment of silence, her fiance stood up.  He looked at her.  The surge of emotions expressed by his eyes, etched into his face, both tugged at and repelled her.  Such anger and pain; bloodlust and fear--he seemed somehow lost, and the grim smile he still wore creased his features into unfamiliar lines.

              "Ranma?" she said, her voice hardly above a whisper.

              He shook his head and wordlessly turned away.  With slow, measured steps he walked towards Kasumi's room.  Akane remembered: in preparation for the siege, neighbourhood cats had been rounded up and stored in her sister's room.  A backup plan--an emergency strategy to be used only if something went terribly wrong.

              Everything was terribly wrong.  It was only as the martial artist left the reach of the few remaining hallway lights that she noticed: Ranma was glowing.  In the pool of darkness outside Kasumi's room, he stood revealed within his own aura; and tiny tongues of flame danced across his body.  With a final glance back, he stepped into her sister's room.

              I don't want to see this, she thought, in this state of mind, who knows how he'll react?  She nearly fled down the stairs, and only as she neared the main hall did she realize that, at that moment, she feared her own fiance more than whatever final challenge awaited her here.  Only as she reached the first floor did she ask herself why: her confidence that Ranma could never willingly hurt her remained absolute, so what was she afraid of?  She turned the corner and saw that last remaining opponent.

              He stood in the middle of the room, nearly invisible against the looming night behind him.  An obsidian man with flowing darkness wrapped about him like a cloak.  Nearly two meters in height, the suggestion of taut muscles rolled beneath the glassy smoothness of his skin.  The approach of new defenders seemed merely to amuse him.  Akane then noticed her other friends: Mousse and Ukyou lay in a groaning heap on the far side of the room, slowly untangling themselves; opposite them, a painfully battered-looking Ryouga struggled to stand.

              "Watch out!" the bandanna'd martial artist called out, as he unsteadily regained his footing.  "He's unbelievably strong!"

              Akane watched from the edge of the room as her friends scattered and formed a semi-circle around their final opponent.  Numerous emotions swelled within as she saw the determination in their eyes, noted how battle-weary and wounded they all were.  This was all her fault--indirectly, she accepted, as Ranma had convinced her earlier tonight--but her friends were still fighting to protect her.  Fighting, it seemed, to the very end.  She swallowed hard at the thought: Ranma had already lost his father because of her actions.  Blinking against the sudden sting of tears, she took her place in the circle around their enemy.  He turned toward her as she joined the group, and smiled.  "At last," the man said, his voice deep and mellifluous.  "The prize approaches."

              "I'm not your prize," she answered.  "This isn't a game."

              He seemed to consider that for a moment.  "But it is.  Oh, believe me, it is: one that has dragged on for far, far too long.  And tonight I take the first step toward ending it once and for all."

              "People have been hurt!" she yelled at him.  "There's a man dead upstairs!"  She was crying, thinking of Ranma, of his loss, the pain and tortured acceptance of what he had done in order to avenge his father's death.

              At that, the man seemed to grow angry.  "A man dead?  My family is dead!  You have killed my family, my beautiful sons and daughters!"  He levelled one accusing finger at Mousse.  "That one slew my son."  Turning, he then pointed at Shampoo.  "And that one cut down my beloved eldest daughter."  Turning back to Akane, he fixed her with a baleful glare.  "Do not speak to me of loss!  My family lies slaughtered--by children!  By small, young, pathetic children!"  He took a single step towards Akane, and her friends tightened the circle around him at the movement.

              He stopped, his smile returning.  "But you make it all worthwhile, my beautiful and elusive Key."  With a sweeping gesture he took in the encircling martial artists and beyond them, the destruction of the house.  "My family can be replaced, but you--oh, you, my wonderful, precious treasure, are a unique opportunity.  Let us put an end to this foolishness.  Come with me, child, and I'll spare these ignorant friends of yours."

              Ryouga's growl cut off any answer she could have made.  "She's not going anywhere with the likes of you."

              "The likes of me?" he repeated, voice growing in volume.  "The likes of _me_?  Idiot child!  Do you even know who it is you face?"

              "It doesn't matter," Ryouga answered.  "I won't let you touch Akane."

              "Do you think you can stop me, then?" the obsidian man answered, and his smile grew.  "Will you offer me a greater challenge than that old crone?"

              An audible gasp from Shampoo, a sharp intake of breath by Mousse; and Akane felt her own stomach sink at his words.

              "Great Grandmother?" whispered a stunned Shampoo.

              "An amusing divertissement," the man answered, "but little more."

              "No!" shrieked the purple-haired Amazon, leaping forward with her sword held high.  A beat later her friends joined the charge: Kuno with the Saotome katana, Mousse wielding two wicked looking jagged axes, Ukyou and her giant spatula; and finally Ryouga, unleashing a blast from his cupped hands, his words unheard over everyone's battle roar.  Akane hesitated a moment before attacking, and therefore saw the assault end even as it began:

              Ryouga's ki-blast splashed without effect against an unseen barrier a full metre from his target; with a sweep of his hand, the obsidian figure sent a wash of energy crashing into Mousse and Ukyou's forward rush--they were flung back like rag dolls into the wall behind.  Kuno's charge was met with an outstretched hand that slipped within his reach, grabbed him by the neck, and threw him flailing across the room--Akane had to leap aside to avoid the tumbling body.  Shampoo got through: descending from above and with a fierce cry in Chinese, her sword sliced down against the man's neck.  The blade shattered like glass.  Turning smoothly, he seized her by the throat and effortlessly lifted her off the ground.

              "Let her go!" howled Mousse, charging once again, joined by Ryouga.  The darkness that slid about the man flared up briefly in a full nimbus of inky hue; it reached out and flashed over the two martial artists.  The long-haired boy was plucked from the ground and held suspended in coils of darkness, but when the blackness lifted Ryouga stood free, his own aura glimmering weakly.

              "Interesting," the man said.

              "You can't have Akane," Ryouga panted.  He glanced her way with pained eyes, and took a shuddering breath.  It was amazing that he could even stand.  "I made a promise."

              "One you cannot keep," the man said, and quicker than her eye could follow he placed the palm of one hand against Ryouga's forehead.  Her friend went rigid, and when the man pulled away the martial artist's face was deadened and grey.  A moment later he toppled over.

              The obsidian man turned towards Akane.  He still held Shampoo by one hand, her futile struggling growing weaker.  Mousse, floating a metre above the ground and trailing after him, seemed unconscious in the dark bonds gripping him.

              As the man approached, Akane suddenly realized that she was alone.  What could she hope to accomplish, where all her friends had failed?  Eyes wide with anticipation, smiling faintly, her enemy came closer, and she felt afraid--so very afraid, beyond even shame at her own perceived cowardliness.  We lost, she thought, we actually lost. . . .

              "And now," the man said, reaching for her, "there is no one left to save you."

              A haunting yowl reverberated from upstairs.

              The pigtailed youth walked down the stairs without making a sound.  Not walked, really: he _stalked_, moving with a rolling grace that could only be described as feline.  His very bearing conveyed a primal and animalistic image, something in the arc of his back, the coiled way he held his lightly clenched fists.  But as he trod into the room, it was clear that this time the Neko-ken had manifested itself in a very different fashion than usual.

              Ranma was glowing.  Tongues of flame danced across his body; when he uncurled his hands, the fiery corona reached beyond his fingers and highlighted invisible long and curving claws.  Heat radiated from his body in palpable waves.  His face was smeared with blood and fur, his features twisted in an expression of plaintive confusion--why were his cat friends dead?  Eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as they fell upon the obsidian man threatening the woman he loved.  Lips curled back, teeth bared, a feral growl rumbling in his throat: he was deep in the throes of the Neko-ken, but the dark glimmer in his eyes was entirely human, the desire for revenge, the need to inflict pain, purely human.  He rode the raw instincts of the cat released inside of him, but somehow the dreadful anger he carried proved a stronger instinct still; and the hungry set of his jaw was offset by that same hinted grim smile.  Padding past his female, Ranma watched as his enemy tossed aside his playmates.

              "What do we have here?" the man said.

              Ranma-the-cat released a fierce hiss and leapt forward.  His prey stepped back, his aura flaring up in a negative halo around him.  Dark tendrils lashed out at the feline martial artist.  With casual ease, he bounced between the reaching attacks and swiftly closed the distance.  A final upsurge swept between him and his opponent.  With a screech, Ranma lashed out with his leading paw.  Fiery trails ignited the air behind his strike like blistering tracers.  His claws clove through the darkness and raked across his target's face.

              The obsidian man howled and staggered back, one hand clutching at his face.  Darkness once again surged about him, this time in a spiralling cyclone that drove the madly springing cat back.  Ranma landed and licked at his paw, keeping one careful eye on his opponent.  The violent gout subsided.  The man pulled his hand away from his face.  Three long jagged lines, glowing fiery red, ran across his left cheek.  The glow quickly faded, but the triple flaw in the mirrored perfection of his face remained.

              "You wounded me," he said, voice equal parts disbelief and anger--underscored, the barely rational part of Ranma's mind noted with pleasure, by grudging respect.  "Even the Amazon bitch failed to touch me, and she was the most amusement I've had in years."

              The martial artist crept in a slow, wary semi-circle several metres from the man.  Stepping softly on all fours, he retraced his steps, keeping himself between the aggressor and his mate.  Caught in the primitive, powerful emotions of the cat, there was no denying the fierce love he felt for the woman under his protection.  Ranma would rather die than lose her.  No, the enraged fragment of his mind insisted, I would rather kill than lose her.

              "I see," the obsidian man continued.  "You are the one that killed the last two of my family, then?  

My eldest son, even.  It would seem that I underestimated you.  I underestimated all of you."  The darkness outside seemed to flow forward, flooding the room, and in the sudden dimness the man seemed taller, stronger, his eyes flaring a brilliant red.  In a voice turned deeper and harsher he continued: "No longer!  I will not be denied what is mine!"

              Ranma-the-cat pounced, swiping with flaming claws at the dark-shrouded man.  His burning aura pushed back the shadows, but his strikes failed to touch his prey.  Fiery arcs sliced through reaching murky swells--and shredded the house beyond--but the man proved as elusive as dancing shadows.  He flowed aside and beneath the martial artist's attacks, narrowly evading Ranma's furious barrage of feline swipes.  The pigtailed boy bounced like a hyperkinetic pachinko ball around his target, and yowled in frustration at his inability to score a hit.

              And then, landing in a crouch, his foe blurred before him, and one ebony arm slammed into his chest.  The cat in him screeched in pain; the barely rational part of Ranma's mind could not remember having ever being hit so hard.  The impact would have hurled him back through the house, but sudden coils of night snatched him from the air.  He hung suspended there, flailing in frustration.  Every inky curl he cut to ribbons reformed behind the trailing blaze.  Ephemeral bonds of darkness somehow tightened around his body, pinning hands to his side and forcing his legs together.  As much as he twisted and thrashed and howled in feline frustration, he could not break free.

              "All too easy," the man said, and his bonds tightened further.  Howls of frustration turned to screams of pain.  Glacial cold cut through the heat of his fire.  Ranma felt his hold on feline instincts slipping, felt his own frightening slide into unconsciousness--if not something deeper and far more permanent.  Struggling subsided and he slumped in his enemy's grip.  His previously fierce aura faded to a dull glimmer.  Pervasive coldness brought with it an insidious numbness, and sibilant whispers offered the peace and calm of sleep.  The boy felt hollow and chilled to his very core.

              An angry flame yet burned at that core.

              Ranma remembered: a similar brutal dichotomy of coldness and heat felt once before.

              _primal flame, heat; pervasive chill of death_

              His father, and a stupid story about a strawberry.

              _glorious suspension between heaven and earth_

              Akane.

              _love lying dead in his arms, too late, too slow_

              Ranma grabbed hold of that tenuous, flickering anger, and shielded it with his waning will.  He stoked the flame with his memories, his fears, frustrations, loss.  He stared deep into his rage and suddenly understood that beyond it seethed and roiled broad expanses of yet untapped power.  It was a source only fleetingly touched upon once, and the residual fear he carried from that earlier encounter momentarily threatened his resolve.  Bonds tightened; a girl screamed; a father's words resonated deeply.

              With no further hesitation, the martial artist passed through his own fire and immersed himself fully in what lay on the other side.  He didn't remember much of what happened after that.

Continues in:

Chapter Five: Tokyo by Night

***

Author's Notes:

Special attacks used in this chapter:

(Is it just me, or was there a lot of them?  Generally, I'm not too big on the usage of Japanese in an English story, but attack names are a manga-staple I refuse to translate.  Where possible, I try to slip the English translation into the text soon after, but sometimes I can't quite manage it.  Therefore, a quick glossary.)

Shishi Houkou Dan:

'Lion's Roar Bullet' -- Ryouga's trademark depression-fuelled ki-blast.  The vertical (and generally more powerful) version was initially called the 'Kanseikei Shishi Houkou Dan' -- the complete version.

Shishi Hijuuken:

'Lion Hide Heavy Punch' -- my invention.  I figure that raising sumo-pigs has got to get boring, so he came up with this on a slow day.  Helps to keep the pigs in line, too.

Bakusai Tenketsu:

'Exploding Point' -- well, the literal kanji translation would be 'Explode Break Point Hole,' but that's just a tad too cumbersome.  Another Ryouga trademark, makes 'not-alive' things explode: rocks and so on.  Would it work on scabbed-over flesh, or am I taking liberties?  We'll see. . . .

Muusuno Furumonti Totsu:

Did you get this one?  'Furumonti' is katakana: Full Monty.  'Mousse's Full Monty Strike.'  Well, the narrative did say 'robes thrown wide open.'

Umisen-ken, Yamasen-ken:

'Thousand Sea Fist', 'Thousand Mountain Fist'.  These are extremely violent arts designed, and then hidden by, Genma.  The styles parallel the human body with a house, the practitioner with a thief.  True enough, Ranma never used the Yamasen-ken before (at least that we see in the manga), but if he can learn the entire Umisen-ken from a single display by his father, then he must've been able to pick-it up off of Ryuu Kumon.

Geimon Tetsusen Shi

Mouko Kaimon Ha

Kaichuu Houjiyu Satsu:

Moves previously used in the Ryuu Kumon story arc.  'Welcome Gate Iron Fan Fingers', 'Fierce Tiger Opening Gates Blow', 'Pocket Jewel Death Embrace'.  Though they might be losing something in the translation.  Damn kanji compounds.

Kanseikei Mouko Takabisha:

'Complete Fierce Tiger's Domineering'.  The Mouko Takabisha is Ranma's confidence-fuelled ki-blast. Unlike Ryouga, he never displayed a 'complete' version in the manga.  Leaves you to wonder what the 'ultimate' version would be--and what could inspire 'ultimate' confidence?

Neko-ken:

'Cat-fist'.  The art of fighting with the ferocity of a cat.  Apparently Takahashi has never met _my_ cat.


	6. Tokyo by Night

What has gone before:

A fight between Happosai and Ranma brought a strange book into Akane's possession.  Her use of that book made her a target for unknown forces.  Their search for her whereabouts led to the inadvertent death of innocent girls that resembled the youngest Tendo.  In putting an end to the violence, Ranma led the enemy to the Tendo Residence.  Allies were called in and preparations made.  The enemy attacked.  The fight was long and arduous, and destroyed most of the Tendo house.  In the end, the defenders held their ground . . . but at what cost?

***

The slow rise into consciousness came reluctantly.  He awoke to great pain.  The first thing the man realized, swimming into the upper levels of dim awareness, was that he was lying face-up on tatami.  Then the hurting filtered in though the numbness.  There was a stiff itchiness in his feet and hands, and a dull ache across his chest and breasts with each breath; finally an agonizing pounding started in his head.  Sounds of movement and labor slowly filtered in as he regretfully eased into full wakefulness.

              Ranma Saotome groaned and opened his eyes and wished he hadn't.  The ceiling above him was torn open, and water trickled from Nabiki's room above.  His left foot lay in a growing puddle, a rhythmic cold patter dripping against an ankle.  You'd think somebody would've moved me, he thought, grumbling.  He went to sit up and, strain as he might, found that he couldn't move.

              "Awake, Son-in-law?" asked a dry voice, and Cologne's withered visage filled his supine view.  "You have been unconscious for nearly twenty minutes."  There were bruises on her face, dried blood, but at the moment she appeared as concerned for his well being as he had ever seen her.

              "Yeah," he said, and winced at the effort of talking, his feminine voice raw.  "But I can't seem to move."

              "I know.  Do you feel well?"

              "Terrible," he answered, "but I'll live."

              "Good," she said, and nodded.  Then she stepped back, hefted her walking stick--and whacked him upside the head.  Bright lights flared behind his eyes, and he screamed at the redoubled thudding of his brain.

              "Why'd'ya do that, old crone!"

              "Idiot child!" she yelled, face centimeters from his.  "Arrogant, bull-headed youth!  Have you learned nothing?"

              "What the hell you talkin' about?" he yelled back, again straining to sit up.  "And . . . and why the hell can't I move?"

              "Because I paralyzed you, Son-in-Law.  I knocked you out with a pressure point before you destroyed yourself--and us in the process."

              Ranma blinked.  "Huh?"

              The expression of rage on the Amazon Elder's face softened slightly.  "You overextended yourself, Son-in-Law.  They say the brightest flame burns quickest, Ranma: and in the final moments of tonight's battle, you nearly extinguished us all."

              He struggled to remember.  "That thing, after it . . . my father, and I . . . Kasumi's room.  The c-c-cats were all dead.  Or half-dead.  But I picked them up, buried my face in them.  The Neko-ken came, I fought, that guy grabbed me, and I start to black out, and . . .".  His voice trailed off.

              "And then I knocked you out," Cologne finished.

              Ranma stared at her, caught between frustration and hope.  "But I got the guy first, right?  If you're talking to me, that means we won, right?"

              Cologne shook her head, eyes darkening with anger and sympathy.  "We survived the attack, Son-in-Law.  Bloodied and tired, but we held our ground and gave better than we received.  But for you, I'm afraid, the battle this night is far from over.

              "The final opponent fled, Son-in-law, and he took Akane with him."  

Let the Curtain Fall

by

Michael Noakes

(Started Sept 13/2001)

A fanfiction set in the Ranma 1/2 world of Rumiko Takahashi.

Previous chapters available at http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m

              Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;

              Light dies before thine uncreating word:

              Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;

              And universal darkness buries all.

              _The Dunciad_

Act One,

Chapter Five:

Tokyo By Night

Swiftly and ghostlike, tenebrous buildings briefly looming and dimmed lights sporadically flaring through misty darkness, the shadowed impression of Tokyo flowed past as in a dream.  How she wished it were nothing but a dream.  For Akane Tendo, the obsidian arm that held her within its powerful grasp was all too nightmarish, all too real.  The skin of her kidnapper was cool and smooth, glassy as it encircled her waist.  Blurred suggestions of the city rushed past and night winds pulled at her burnt and torn clothes; but all sounds came to her muted, as from a great distance. 

              Her initial shouts had gone unheard.  Slamming her fists against the broad expanse of her kidnapper's chest had only bloodied her knuckles.  He ignored her, crimson gaze set forward, wearing the faintest hint of a triumphant smirk.  Akane squeezed her eyes shut against the growing despair within.  This can't be happening, she thought.  I've been kidnapped!

              Again, a cynical voice in the back of her head added.

              This time, however, she wasn't being used as a pawn against Ranma.  This terrible, strange man--she didn't even know his name!--wanted _her_--she didn't even know why!--and wasn't dropping convenient hints as to where they were going.  And what if he had?  All her friends, attacking in unison, had been effortlessly swept aside.  Even Ranma, ablaze in the fullness of his ability, had barely managed to scratch his opponent before being brutally knocked down.

              And then . . . .

              Akane swallowed.  And then . . . if it hadn't been for this man carrying her away, she might very well be dead.  Killed by her fiance.

              He had twisted and writhed and hissed, suspended in midair by wispy coils of darkness.  Feline yowls sounded across the house, and Ranma strained futilely to escape his attacker's bonds.  The obsidian man simply watched, eyes cruelly narrowed and taking in the weakening struggles with apparent great satisfaction.  The pigtailed martial artist's fierce aura dimmed, his body went limp, and he slumped, unmoving, held a full two meters off the floor.  The dark loops around him tightened further, coldly burning into the helpless victim, and the body twitched and bled in its unconsciousness.

              Akane ran forward, battering her fists against the last remaining attacker.  Her punches did nothing, the man's skin as smooth and cool as ice and far far harder.  "Leave him alone!" she screamed.  "Let him go!  You're killing him!"

              "Well, of course I am," the man said, voice tinted with amusement.  He finally turned flaming eyes towards her.  "I take great pleasure in it."

              "Don't!" Akane pleaded, powerful emotions swelling within as her fiance shuddered, his skin turning gray and pale.  "I'll . . . I'll do whatever you want!  I'll go with you, willingly, just--"

              "Willingly?  Do you think I need your permission, you stupid girl?"

              "You've already beaten him!  Don't--"

              "Be quiet," the man said, reaching for her.  He stopped, a fierce light blazing up behind him.  With a scream, Ranma tore free of his bonds, arms and legs lashing out and shredding the grappling darkness.  He dropped to the ground, landing in a low crouch.  Bright flames danced and crackled across his body.

              "Who are you, boy?" the obsidian man said, turning his full attention on the glowing martial artist.  Heat flowed from Ranma in palpable waves, and the light of his aura pushed at the swelling shadows of his enemy.  "What do you think you're doing?"

              Her fiance slowly stood, then stepped forward into an aggressive stance.   Arms snapped up and stretched wide, then slowly drew down, finally crossing at the forearms, held at waist level.  Curved fingers seemed to rake at his own aura, and as his hands flowed into a classic Mouko Takabisha position, thin jets of fire swirled into the gathering sphere of power.  But this was something new: the ball of charged air suddenly ignited and swelled larger.  Their enemy's eyes widened with surprise--and fear, she saw.              "Fool!" he cried.  "You'll destroy--"

              Blank-eyed, Ranma seemed beyond hearing.  Akane wasn't sure he was fully aware of what was happening.  Arms that trembled in restraining the energies he had called forth finally failed; his attack blasted free.  She suddenly found herself confronted with a gout of flame larger than she could have imagined, a rushing conflagration, it filled her vision, a wave of heat slammed into her; and then her enemy cradled her protectively, back turned towards her fiance's strike.  Flames flowed past the obsidian man's hunched form, punching a hole through another side of the house.  The heat was intense, her vision swimming, ears filled with a sizzling roar.  The man's shadows gathered close.

              With a final snarl, the obsidian man fled, carrying Akane with him.

              Akane's eyes snapped open at a sudden lurch.  Sounds and smells assaulted her in a dizzying rush as her surroundings emerged from the fading shadows.  The obsidian man alighted on the quiet street below, and carefully, almost delicately, put her down.  One hand still held her by the wrist.

              "I have waited so long for you to come along, girl," the man said, sounding annoyed, "but I never imagined your capture would prove so difficult."  Crimson eyes had faded back into stony impassivity, yet Akane imagined a faint redness still glimmered in the depths of the three parallel gouges running along his cheek.  "Nothing could have predicted that boy."

              She smiled, feeling a certain pride in her fiance.  "Yeah, and you just wait until he catches up."

              To her surprise, the man smiled as well.  "Oh, I most certainly hope he _does_ catch up to you, my precious Key.  I hope he finds you, and keeps you safe."  He released his grip.  "Now go, little girl.  Run away!"

              Blinking, rubbing at her wrist, she took a step away from the man.  "What?"

              Shaking his head, the man gave her a little shove.  "Are you stupid, girl?  Run away!  Flee, faster than you ever have before.  Time is short!"

              She trotted a few more hesitant steps away, keeping an eye on him over one shoulder.  He watched her expectantly and made a shooing motion with one hand.  Then he glanced away, toward her right.  She thought she saw something move there, a presence in the shadows.

              "Quickly," the man added, voice filled with urgency.  "They're almost here.  I'll delay them, but you must flee.  Now!"

              Akane needed no further urging.  Confused, scared, heart pounding in her chest, she ran away.  At full speed, down dimly lit suburban streets, darkened houses on either side flashing past.  Turning down back alleys, dashing around random corners, working her way in an unknown direction, her own desperate breathing and the pounding of her feet against the pavement the only sounds.

              Eventually she slowed, chest heaving, gasping for air.  She looked around and took in her surroundings.  With a sinking feeling, Akane realized that she had no idea where she was.  A residential area apparently, with narrow houses crammed together, occasional tiny balconies holding drying clothes, limp plants, satellite dishes.  A lone dog gave a forlorn bark somewhere; the faint sounds of a television drifted from a nearby house.

              Where am I? she wondered.  And how do I get home?

              She shivered at a sudden gust and hugged herself, feeling very alone.  It all felt so very surreal: just yesterday, she had been walking home with Ranma on a beautiful afternoon.  A visit to a park, print clubs made, cheerful conversation: a day free of worries.  They had gotten along better than in months.  The thought of that peaceful moment almost brought a smile to her face, but remembering her fiance just brought home how her own foolishness had almost gotten him killed.  It made her aloneness all the more painful.  She shivered again, and came to another realization: she was nearly naked.

              Somewhere in all the fighting, in Ranma's fiery strike, during the shadowy escape, her clothes had suffered grievous damage.  Her light pink blouse--stained dark by spattered blood--was fluttering shreds held together by a single tenuous button; the edge of her skirt was tattered, long rips running up to the waist.  Blushing deeply, she realized her every step gave indecent glimpses of her underwear.

              "This isn't fair!" she moaned, ducking into a narrow alley between houses.  Alone and lost.  Strange monsters chasing her.  Her friends and family hurt--Mr. Saotome dead.  She was penniless.  Nearly naked.  Tears sprang to her eyes and a sob rose in her throat.  It was too much--too much.  Holding herself tighter, she slumped against the wall behind and slowly slid to the ground.  The concrete was cold and rough against her skin.  Hugging her knees to her chest, Akane stifled a sob.  Why, she asked herself, why did I have to steal that book?

              Because--

              It doesn't matter, she told herself.  She rubbed the back of one hand across her eyes.  It doesn't matter, I did it, and I'm lost, and dammit, Akane, pull yourself together.  Get up and find out where you are.  Keep yourself alive until Ranma finds you.  Then she shook her head angrily.  No, she berated herself, find your _own_ way home.  You can't count on them: they don't know where you are, and this is all your fault, anyway, deal with it yourself.

              It took some time to fully accept her own words, but when the reality of what she had to do became unavoidable, it brought with it an unexpected calm.  Akane sprang to her feet, suddenly energized.  "I can do this," she exclaimed, pumping her arm.  "I'll show them all I'm a real martial artist, I can take care of myself!"  The final suffering button on her shirt gave way.  The tattered remains fell away, leaving her standing with one arm raised, wearing nothing but a dangerously torn skirt and a lacy white bra.  With a loud squeak, she hastily crossed her arms across her chest.  First, she added, I find some new clothes.

              "Let go of me!" Ranma yelled, struggling feebly.  Wounded and exhausted, his strength failed him, and between Mousse's chains and Ryouga's grip he couldn't escape.  "I have to find her!"

              The moment Cologne had released him from the pressure point, Ranma had jumped to his feet, ready to dash off in pursuit of his kidnapped fiancee.  That bastard had a full half-hour on him; anything could have happened!  Cologne, however, was having none of it.

              "Where will you go, Son-in-Law?  How will you fight, should you find her?"

              "Shut up!" he shouted.  "I have to save her!"  He twisted free of Ryouga's grip, his battered friend barely able to stand, let alone restrain him properly.  "Akane's in trouble!"

              "Akane?" Ryouga blinked, and turned to Cologne.  "She's missing?"

              Cologne sighed and nodded.

              "My dear Akane!" the lost boy cried, dashing outside.  "I'll save you!"

              "Why am I cursed to help such moronic children?" Ranma heard her mutter, as she turned to Mousse.  "Boy, chase down that idiot and bring him back before he gets lost."  Turning back to Ranma, she leveled her stick at him.  "As for you: stop struggling, sit down, and listen, or I'll knock you out again."

              Ranma glared balefully at the point hovering centimeters from his chest.  He had failed to protect Akane, he had to find her; but he couldn't deny the truth of the Old Ghoul's words.  Even standing was proving difficult right now, and even if he could run--where would he go?  Akane could be anywhere.

              Tiredly passing his hand across his face, he slowly sank to the floor.  Arms propped up on crossed knees pushed palms against eyes squeezed shut, and he struggled to hold back tears of rage and frustration and loss.  His fiancee, gone; his father, dead.  He had failed utterly.  What did it matter that most of the attackers had been killed . . . killed gruesomely, savagely.

              "Are you all right, Son-in-law?"  Cologne's voice was uncharacteristically soft, almost caring.

              "Yeah, sure," he answered, and then gave a dry, humorless chuckle.  "No."  He looked up at the wizened face balanced above him.  "How could it be, Cologne?  Everything went wrong.  I couldn't protect Akane; hell, I almost killed her myself.  Take a look around: we wrecked Mr. Tendo's house, and everyone nearly died."  He buried his face in his hands again.  "And Pop--"

              "Isn't dead yet," Cologne said.

              He stared at her.  "Don't play games with me, Old Ghoul," he growled.  "I saw him.  There was a hole the size of my fist through his chest.  You don't get up from that."

              "Maybe so, but I assure you: Genma Saotome still lives, though only barely.  Your mother is in an ambulance with him as we speak, if not already at the hospital."

              Ranma shook his head in denial.  "That's impossible."

              "But true.  Your father, Ranma, is a glutton and a coward--"

              "And an idiot," he added automatically.

              "--but I've rarely met a man with a stronger sense of self-preservation, or desire to live.  I would say his chances are very slim--but hope remains."

              For the first time since awakening, Ranma felt a stirring of . . . not hope, exactly, but at least a lightening of his despair.  He sat up a little straighter, drawing strength from his father's struggle.  If there's a chance Pop might live, the boy told himself, then I won't let him down by giving up now.  He took stock of his situation.

              He was in rough shape.  Exhaustion reached deep into his bones, his limbs feeling dull and lifeless, his insides dead.  His hands were badly burned, the palms puffy and blackened, the skin flaky; the underside of his feet were the same, and feeling past red locks he felt a similar burnt dryness on his scalp.  His chest hurt; pulling open his badly worn shirt, he found his torso crisscrossed with thin, pale bands.  His sinuous scar, winding from atop one feminine breast and under the other, stood out nearly dark against his palely discolored skin.

              Looking around, he saw his friends--those who were capable of moving--working hard at some task.  Repairs would come later, and take some time.  Ranma could not remember ever seeing the house in such rough shape.  Not even Tarou and Ashura's tangle a year ago had wrecked the place like this.  That he was responsible for much of the damage only heightened his guilt.

              The phone rang.  He was surprised it still worked.  Kasumi floated by, serene despite the night's events.  Cologne continued updating him.

              "Everyone is busy cleaning up the mess.  Unfortunately, you can't have an ambulance pick up a man with a hole through him without the police becoming inquisitive.  There are some official types arriving soon.  The last thing we need them to see are bodies scattered across the house."

              "Bodies?" he asked, unsure what the police would think of monster corpses.  Normally they avoided the Tendos.  Too many weird things always took place, and the martial artists were more than capable of dealing with them, anyway.

              Cologne nodded, and fixed him with an unnervingly serious, appraising gaze.  "Bodies, Ranma.  These monsters, it turns out, were all transformed people.  They all reverted back to their original shape--or what was left of it--soon after that obsidian man left."

              His heart skipped a beat at her words.  He flushed hot, then cold, trembling, the bottom dropping out of his stomach.  People.  He had killed--people.  Words came from far away, 'Son-in-law, you did what you had to,' but through a rising buzzing in his head they meant nothing.  People, not monsters.  Dead.  His father, Akane gone, too much, too much.  He wanted to sleep, wake up from all this, his fatigued body was drawing him that way. . . .

              Kasumi's clear voice sliced through his fevered thoughts.  "Ranma, there's a phone call for you.  It's Akane!"

              "AKANE?"

              Sounds of people, music behind her, cars.  Hard to hear her voice over the urban din.

              "Um, yeah, listen, Ranma, I can't talk long, I've only got about thirty yen, it's all I had in my shirt pocket, and--"

              "Akane, where are you?"

              "A phone booth in Shibuya."

              "Shibuya?  What the hell are you doing in Shibuya?"

              "How should I know?  That man, he just let me go, I think there were others out there, like him, so he let me go and I ran and--"

              "Just give me a landmark, Akane, where in Shibuya are you, I'll come and get you, and--"

              "I . . . I don't really know."  Her voice sounded hesitant.  "I've never been to Shibuya before, and--"

              Friends and family squeezing around the phone strained to listen.  A tired and dirty Nabiki, hands and clothes stained a disturbing pink, anxiously asked, "Where the hell is she?"

              "Shibuya," he answered, turning back to the phone.  "Akane, any, I dunno, stores or something?"

              "I passed a big bar or club or something close to here.  Umm . . . it was called Neo."

              The name meant nothing to him.  "Neo?"

              Nabiki's eyes widened at the name.  "Hey, I know where that is.  She's just off the main strip.  How the hell did she get there?"

              "Nabiki knows where it is.  Stay put, Akane!  I'll come get you."

              She sighed.  "Thanks.  I'll--oh, Ranma, it's been a horrible night.  I even had to steal some poor kid's uniform, I can't believe I'm wearing a junior high school outfit again, in Shibuya at night, people must think--"

              "Akane," Ranma said, "don't worry about it."  His throat tightened, the relief he felt at hearing her voice nearly choking him.  "Akane, I . . . I. . . ."

              "Ranma?"

              He suddenly remembered the people gathered around, eyes both expectant and disapproving watching him carefully.  "I'll be there soon."

              "I'll wait by the club.  I . . . I better go, I think there's a guy waiting to use the phone."  Sounds of movement, then her voice, frightened.  "Hey, what are you--he's got a sword!" she exclaimed.  She screamed.

              The phone went dead.

              Amidst a rain of shattered glass and rent plastic, Akane hit the ground hard.  She rolled with the impact and rose to her feet, twirling to face her attacker.  The booth laid cloven in two, the phone itself sliced open.  A rain of brown and silver coins clattered to the floor.  The green plastic receiver remained in her hand, the severed cord hanging limply.

              Two men stepped around the debris.  They were tall and dark, wearing long trench coats that billowed behind them in a sudden gust of wind.  They both carried swords: not refined, slender katana, but mammoth blades nearly as tall as their bearers, the metal gleaming dully under the neon wash.

              She backed away, heart pounding in her chest.  They advanced, separating as they tried to flank her.  Akane desperately looked around for help, but the Shibuya crowd simply flowed by, seemingly unaware of her predicament.  She grabbed at the nearest passerby.  "Call the police!" she screamed at him.

              The man, a drunken salary-worker stinking of beer and cigarette smoke, stared at her with bloodshot eyes.  He tugged nervously at the knot of his loosened tie, blanching slightly.  His gaze flicked to the two approaching men, and his eyes unfocussed.  "I . . . I have to get home, sorry," he mumbled, and pulled away from Akane's slack grasp.  He faded back into the stream of people.

              "He can't help you," one of the approaching men said, his huge blade held low and to the side.  "None of them can."

              "What do you want?" she asked.

              The man paused as his companion continued to flank her.  They stood in an open circle, the crowd somehow unconsciously avoiding them.  Closed shops formed a solid wall behind her, and beyond the people, traffic crawled by.  "I'm sorry," the man answered her, sounding genuinely contrite, "but I have to kill you."

              "For your own good," added the other man.

              "How is dying good for me?" she exclaimed.

              "You've become involved with forces beyond your understanding."  The man shook his head sadly.  "No doubt, those fools back at the Order would try to save you: altruistic idiots!  Your death brings this war one step closer to an end."  He gave a slight nod to his companion; the other one brought his weapon to bear; they were about to attack.

              Akane had no idea what he was talking about.  At the moment, she didn't much care.  They had her pressed against the storefront behind, the night security gate cool and rough against her back.  When she finally spoke, the fearful quaver to her voice wasn't hard to produce.  "Please," she pleaded, "Don't.  I'm just a young schoolgirl . . . I don't want to die."

              Maybe it was the tearful glimmer to her eyes, but the second man hesitated a beat as his companion charged.  The hefty blade, swung down with both hands, clove through the store gate and shattered concrete--but Akane leapt aside with ease.  Even as the man recovered for a second swing, she rushed in close.

              "Leave me alone!" she screamed, and kneed him in the groin.  This close, she caught a glimpse of some kind of stylized armor hidden beneath his coat--something hard and metallic arrested her attack and bruised her knee.  The impact lifted him off the ground and staggered him.  He punched wildly at her.  She blocked out and spun in, her hammerhand catching him in the back of the head.  He stumbled forward--

              --as the other man reached her, the flat of his blade catching her directly across the chest.  Akane flew back, pain flaring in her breasts and ribs, and bounced hard against the wall.  Torn and jagged gate links caught at her school blouse.  The man reversed his grip, the blade scything horizontally for her neck.  With a yelp she ducked, fabric ripping, and the man continued to twist, his blade again slicing in, this time low.  She jumped up, on the defensive and off balance, as beneath her the sword tore a massive gouge out of the sidewalk.  She grabbed the fence and hanged there for a moment, but weakened links suddenly snapped, and with a yelp she tumbled to the ground, landing painfully on her rear.

              "I'm truly sorry," the second man said, a foreigner, his Japanese heavily accented.  He didn't look any older than she did, bright blue eyes dotted with tears.  "But the Door must never be opened."  Words spoken by rote provided little comfort as he hefted the sword high overhead.  It shone with lurid greens and reds, reflected neon and something else, inscribed lettering she couldn't understand glimmering in the dull metal; and then the blade crashed down.  Before she could even scream or try to dodge, there was a loud clang of metal against metal.  Another weapon intercepted the blow.

              A man stood over her, dressed similarly to the others, though his sword was, in contrast, slim and narrow: a simple unadorned katana that gleamed brightly in the city lights.  "Not tonight, Yamashita," he stated, before slamming a gauntleted fist into her attacker's face.  The young warrior slumped to the ground, stunned.  "Not ever."

              The first man, Yamashita, fully recovered, glared at the newcomer.  "Takeshi," he said, and spat at her savior's feet.  "How dare you interfere?"

              "Since when does the Order destroy its own charge?  Eager to put yourself out of a job?"

              "You dare preach to me?  Dispossessed scum!  Your kind lost that right over a century ago."

              The man smirked.  "I remain truer to our purpose than you."

              "Don't you _dare_ take the high ground with me, Takeshi."

              "Why so defensive?  Still feeling guilty for betraying us?"

              Akane, meanwhile, scrambled away from the two men as they argued.  The younger man, the foreigner who tried to kill her, was slowly recovering, clutching at his gushing nose with one hand.  All she had to do was run by him.  By the time he hefts his blade to take a swing at me, I can be long gone, she thought.  Then what?  Between monsters on one side, and sword-wielding lunatics on the other, where can I go?

              "The girl dies tonight," growled the man called Yamashita.  "And with her, the Book."

              "I won't let you kill her," insisted Takeshi.

              The first man laughed.  "You think you can stop me?"  He lifted his massive blade with one arm, and held it there still and stable.  "You overestimate yourself."  He nodded towards Akane.  "And even if you should stop me--how long do you think the girl will live?  Word has it that the Children are on the move tonight.  And what if a few Truebloods show up?  Better a clean death than what _they_ would do to her.  How long, Takeshi, do you think this sad, unfortunate little schoolgirl can last against all that?"

              "Longer than you think," said a voice strong and clear, and much to her surprise Akane realized it was her own.  She glared defiantly at the unknown attackers.  "And I'm going to find out.  I don't understand what's going on tonight, but I'm not about to let you kill me."

              The older man, Yamashita, sneered and took a threatening step towards her.  He was immediately checked by Takeshi.

              "Out of my way," growled the attacker.  "Or die alongside her."

              "You underestimate me," answered Takeshi, and he held his thin blade with easy confidence.  "We may have lost the Sword, Yamashita, but we never lost our skill."

              The younger one, however, ignored the stalemate.  He gripped his sword with both hands and leaned into a mighty swing--and dropped his weapon, Akane's swift axe-kick catching him at the wrist.  He fell back with a cry of pain, clutching at his arm.  She rushed forward, landing a solid fist to his stomach--her attack thudded uselessly against metal again--and ducked beneath his desperate punch.  She twisted as she rose, snagged the extended arm, and tossed him over her shoulder in a classic throw.  The boy slammed into the corrugated metal of a closed storefront with a loud clang; before he crashed to the ground, she caught him with a swift sliding side-thrust in midair.  Her attack imbedded him in the wall and left him there half-unconscious.

              "I'm truly sorry," she said, smiling sweetly, "but I don't feel like dying tonight."

              She turned and ran, Takeshi's urgent cries for her to flee unnecessary.  The loud clang of metal against metal rang out behind her as she threaded her way into the swiftly moving crowds.  The sounds faded quickly, but an insistent buzzing in the back of her head convinced her that pursuit was close behind.

              Ryoho Wakashima was a fifth-grade primary school boy.  He liked the sort of things that many boys his age liked: Anpanman, and the Tokyo Giants, and role-playing games on his Playstation.  He didn't like school too much, hated going to bed early, and despised his older sister.  Sometimes, however, you made do with what you had.

              "Sis, please, there's something scary outside!" he pleaded, visibly shaking.  

              Manami Wakashima rolled her eyes as she slipped out of bed.  "You little worm," she growled.  "This better be good."  She trudged after her little brother, cursing the makers of games aimed at young boys that were filled with images guaranteed to give them nightmares.

              "It is, it is, just please . . . be quiet!"

              "Whatever," she mumbled, wondering how they could share the same genes.

              She gingerly picked her way through the minefield of scattered game cartridges and pointy-edged action figures that littered her brother's floor, keeping the trailing hem of her nightgown from dragging on the ground.  In a few years, she'd suspect this was all some perverted trick to see her in her underwear--she took some pride in her lithe teenaged body--but as it was, she knew her retarded brother was still firmly stuck in the 'girls are icky' stage.

               With unnatural dexterity, Ryoho had already dashed to the other side and was kneeling by the window, staring out.  He anxiously waved for her to hurry up.  "Yeah, yeah," she mumbled, reaching him.  She took one look outside--and quickly joined her brother in his furtive crouch.

              The Wakashima household was two-storied and stood at a suburban intersection, and her brother's room looked out from above.  In the pale streetlights abnormal figures faced each other, and the very night itself seemed to gather in thick coils about them.  The air was unusually warm for this time of year, and Ryoho had left the window open.  She could hear faint voices from below.

              "The pleasure is mine, really," said the tall, slender woman standing opposite a man who seemed, impossibly, to be smoothly cut from shiny black stone.  From this vantage point the woman's face was concealed, but Manami imagined she could hear the sneer in her voice.  "What an honor to again stand before the mighty Akuji!"

              "Enough pleasantries," answered the obsidian man, sounding unimpressed, if not outright bored.  "I have little time, Ryukiko, for either you or your pathetic brood.  Either come to a point, or get out of my way."

              There was a heavy pause, in which unnatural shapes seemed to shift from within the shadows.  Minami almost cried out at an unexpected tug on her nightdress: her brother, looking up at her with wide eyes.  "Who are they?" he asked in a small voice.

              Her only answer was a silent shake of her head.

              "Pathetic?" continued the woman below, her voice dangerous.  "Compared to what, Brother?"  The way she spat the final word, it sounded like an insult.  "To your own weakling Children?"

              "No," he answered, amused.  "To me, dear Sister."

              Another lengthy pause, and from the roiling darkness that pushed at the waving edge of the light, inhuman figures approached.  Monsters--there could be no other description for them.  Minami stifled a scream, hand flying to her mouth.  Her brother, however, almost jumped up at the sight.

              "This is so cool," he said in an excited whisper.

              "Idiot!" she hissed, slapping the back of his head.  "It's a nightmare!"

              "But don't you see?" Ryoho insisted.  "If those things are here, then it can't be long before some Magical Girls show up to save us or something, right?"  The optimistic idiot was grinning widely.  "Maybe we'll even get to see the Sailor Scouts!"

              "Everyone knows they hang out in Juuban, moron," she said.  "Now shut up."

              The horrific creatures--some parodies of the human form, others wholly alien--formed an aggressive semi-circle around the black-skinned man.  He seemed unconcerned, keeping his attention on the tall, slender woman standing before him.  She made a sweeping gesture that took in the four newcomers--her 'children', Manami guessed.  "Pathetic, are we?" Ryukiko snarled.  "You stand before us alone, bereft of your own offspring, and you dare call us 'pathetic'?"  She stepped back as her children tightened the circle around the dark man called Akuji.  His features, impassively black against the night behind, were unreadable. "Oh, yes, Brother, I am well aware of your losses tonight.  Your entire family slaughtered, yourself wounded, and yet you presume such arrogance."

              "And still you waste my time with words," he answered.  Manami shivered at the coldly mocking tone of his voice.

              "Only because I remain curious," the woman answered,  "as to how you could have lost your entire family, and yet failed to destroy the Key?"

             At that, the man took a step forward--the four creatures blocking him shifted hesitatingly backwards.  The night winds swelled violently around them.  Impassive stony eyes flared into brilliant crimson life.  "Now it is you who presumes too much, Little Sister.  Spy on me as you wish, but do not stand between me and the girl!"

              "You betray yourself, Brother!" answered Ryukiko angrily.  "Our Great Father mandated her death long ago!  You risk everything we have achieved by allowing her to live.  Your actions run contrary to the needs of the Family."

              "My actions are not your concern," he said, voice low and hard.

              "I question your motives, Brother."

              "Then you presume too much, Little Sister."

              "Not if they mark you as a traitor!"

              "Such accusations," he answered.  "You wound me."

              "I will have your betrayal exposed before the entirety of the Family, Akuji!"  She spun away, stalking off into the dark.  "Will you still smile, I wonder, when the Elders have ordained your death?"  Her four companions backed away slowly, never turning their attention away from the dark man.  They faded back into the night, beyond the reach of the feeble streetlamp.

              He watched them leave before turning away himself.  "Smile, Little Sister?" he said, softly and to himself, though somehow his voice carried to the watching siblings.  "Hardly.  I shall laugh and bathe in the blood of Father's bastard progeny."  Akuji looked up.  Suddenly fixed upon those crimson eyes, Manami Wakashima gasped, feeling hollowed and exposed before his glare.  "But such things," he seemed to whisper, words resounding painfully within her head, "are not yet for others to know, child."  There was a sudden wash of darkness, chilling and heavy, and then she knew nothing more.

              "I'm sorry," the man said, squinty eyes staring at her from beneath a bushy monobrow, "but I can't let you in."  He was huge and muscular, squeezed into an ill-fitting black suit, and effectively blocked her entry into the club.  Muffled cheers and pounding music filtered through the door.  "You've got the look, girl, but you've got to pay, just like anybody else."

              Akane bit back a growl of frustration.  Some instinct told her that she was still in danger.  Enemies were drawing close.  She needed to lose herself in the crowd, to blend in and shake off pursuit.  Desperation and chance had led her to this nightclub, a neon-lit bass-thumping dance spot called 'The Underground Lounge'.  The man at the door insisted she pay up the 2 500 yen cover charge (one drink included) before entering.  How do I explain, she wondered, that I lost my wallet to a late-night assault on my home, but that I really need to get in off the streets, because sword-wielding lunatics and stone-skinned monsters are chasing me?

              "Hey, hurry it up, will ya?" drawled a girl from behind.  Akane felt a poke from behind, annoying and insistent.  "You're holdin' up d'line, bitch," added a man's voice.

              Very slowly and deliberately, Akane turned to face the couple.  A girl decked out in 70s-styled clothes paired with towering superplatform boots sneered at her insolently; the man, bleach-blond-haired and wearing too-tight black leather pants, looked down at her through red-tinted shades.

              "Push off, yes?" said the girl, giving her a little shove.  "No way you're getting in free looking like _that_."

              After everything else, Akane thought wearily, now I've got to deal with this, too?  She calmly waited for the next push, caught the girl's slender, weak arm, and gave a sharp pull.  Eighteen-centimeter heels gave very poor purchase, and with a tiny yelp the girl tumbled forward into Akane's waiting grasp.

             "Listen, I'm having a very bad night, okay?" the martial artist pronounced, her tone neutral.  When the boyfriend approached, mouthing some kind of protest, she reached out with her free hand, picked him up, slammed him down and held him pinned to the ground.  She glared at them both.  "Like you wouldn't believe."  The girl pushed vainly against Akane's iron grip as the boy gasped for air; her inch-long tiger-printed nails scratched at the martial artist's wrists.  "So how about a little patience?"  She carefully placed the woman back onto her high-heeled perch and then hauled the man back to his feet.  For a moment it seemed like the couple might object, but after seeing Akane's harried expression once again, they chose to give quick nods and move a careful distance away.

              Satisfied, she turned back to the bouncer.  He, however, seemed unimpressed and no more likely to allow her to pass.  Akane quickly considered giving him a quick pounding, but decided it would be a bad idea.  She was trying to _blend_ into the crowd, after all--not start a bar brawl.  She hovered there for a moment, torn with indecision, nearly in tears from conflicting urges--not really wanting to go in, more convinced than ever that something horrible would catch her if she went back, unable to move anywhere, and she wished for another person to be with her, even one of her sisters: Kasumi could simply charm her way past the man, though the idea of her oldest sister in a dance club seemed ludicrous, and Nabiki could bluff her way past, she knew more about this kind of lifestyle, Akane having never even been in a place like this before, hell, she was still underage, and even with just a quick glance she could tell she was surrounded by perverts, and the bouncer was running out of patience, and the growing lineup behind was grumbling louder, and she didn't know what to _do_--when rescue came from an unexpected source.

              "Thanks, Ishi," a thin, well-dressed man said, cutting past the line and stepping through, "just needed some fresh air."

              The hefty bouncer nodded.  "No problem, Mr. Takahashi."

              The man hesitated at the threshold of the bar.  "What's with the holdup?"

              Ishi gave an awkward shrug.  "It's nothing, Mr. Takahashi.  Just a customer who can't pay.  I was about to ask her to leave."

               Mr. Takahashi gave her a brief look-over, and then patted the large man on the shoulder.  "That'll be okay," he said.  "I'll cover it."

              "You sure, Mr. Takahashi?"

              "Positive."

              The bouncer stepped aside.  It took her a moment to realize she could pass.  Mr. Takahashi flashed a lopsided grin at a bemused Akane, and waved.

              "Your name?"

              "A-Akane."

              He motioned for her to follow.  "Well, A-Akane, you coming in or not?"

              It was within the wreckage of the training hall, amidst unraveled tatami mats, torn wooden beams, and shreds of rice paper that Nabiki Tendo took her break.  It was her first since Cologne had assumed charge after Akane's kidnapping.  The moment Ranma's mother had left for the hospital, everyone had been put to work: rescuing her father and older sister from the roof; scrubbing down stained walls, picking up body pieces . . . .  Cologne said she would take care of the corpses--she wouldn't say how, merely stating that she would use 'Ancient Amazon Techniques'--and that brought a frantic thought to Nabiki's mind: What the hell am I doing disposing of bodies?  Exhausted beyond reason, she flopped to the ground and stared numbly up at stars visible through the collapsed ceiling.

              This wasn't how I imagined spending my time back home, she thought.  Then again, I wasn't expecting a late-night assault, either.  It's no wonder I have trouble relating to my friends at school.  They go home and deal with ex-boyfriends and estranged parents; I've got slavering beasts and sadistic snake-women waiting at my front door.

              And guilt, she added morosely.  She had seen Ranma's face when he heard of what happened to their attackers soon after the fight ended.  Just as she had expected, really.  Other people, just like that banker she read about in the newspaper.  Now splattered across her house.  And wasn't that exactly what she had wanted?  Ranma fighting free of his usual concern for others, unhesitant, savage.  Well, she'd gotten what she wanted, but having not told him the truth made the guilt all the worse.  She felt somehow complicit in the act.

              Don't be an idiot, she told herself.  Ranma killed them, not you.

              Heavy steps outside interrupted her thoughts.  She glanced aside and saw Mousse.  He nodded once as he struggled under the weight of a tightly bound figure.  With a final grunt he unceremoniously dumped the body to the ground.  It hit the wood floor with a dull thud.  "Cologne asked us to gather in the house," he said.  "The police should be here soon."

              "What's that?" Nabiki asked, sitting up.

              "Our captive.  I was told to hide her in the dojo closet."  He gave the body a rough shove with his foot, and it rolled over towards her.  The beautiful face wreathed in a silken cascade of blue-black hair, eyes closed in unconsciousness, was all too familiar: Ayumi Utada, who currently held the number one spot on the domestic pop charts.  Half the guys in her dorm had her picture up on their wall.

              Maybe it was the recent feelings of guilt, but the boy's rough treatment of the girl irritated her.  "Hey, careful!  She's already out cold, you don't have to go kicking her."

              Mousse stared at her coldly from behind thick glasses.  Nabiki had never seen the boy in such rough shape.  Wounds from yesterday compounded by the injuries of tonight left him looking haggard and bitter.  He turned his gaze down to the bound woman and looked at her intensely.  "You make me sick," he hissed, and then slowly and deliberately he cleared his throat and spat on their captive's face.

              "Hey!"

              "This bitch," the Chinese martial artist said, still watching the woman, "and her Family, nearly killed us all.  Do you really think that these. . . things, after what they did to Shampoo, deserve _any_ quarter from us?"  He eyes flicked back to Nabiki.  "I'd kill her now if Cologne didn't insist we might need her later."

              Chilled by his gaze but resolute, the Tendo daughter refused to flinch away.  "Tone it down, psycho boy.  She tried to kill me too, remember?  Doesn't mean we've got the right to knock her off in her sleep."

              The boy chuckled.  "Don't take the moral high ground with me, Nabiki Tendo."

              "Excuse me?"

              "When these _bastards_," he started, and he emphasized his point with another kick to the girl, his eyes daring Nabiki to protest, "changed back into people, do you think we were surprised?  You're not the only one who can read a newspaper.  It wasn't hard to put Ranma's fight of last night and today's news together."

              "You knew you were fighting people?"

              "We were prepared for that possibility."  He nodded.  "Did Ranma know?"

              She looked away guiltily.

              "Did you?"

              She sighed.  "Yeah."

              When she looked back, his countenance had lost some of its hardness.  "You did the right thing, Nabiki, by not telling him," he said.  After a short pause he added, "He's the strongest of us now," and his voice was soft.  He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a wallet.  He tossed it at her feet.  "I found this outside," he added.  He spared a final glance at the unconscious pop star before walking away.

              Mousse's words did nothing to console her.  If anything, they brought a sharp stab of pain to her chest, an unpleasant churn in her stomach.  After a long moment Nabiki picked up the wallet.  Watching the unconscious girl, she flipped it open.  "Well, Ayu," she said, "let's see what you've got for us today."

              The man called Takahashi threaded his way through the tightly packed crowd with the ease of frequent passage.  He pulled an unresisting Akane along by the hand.  Many of the patrons seemed to know him, nodding or calling out his name as he passed.  More than a few gave curious, angry, or envious glares towards the girl trailing behind, but she hardly noticed: Akane was too busy staring in stunned amazement at the scene playing out before her.

              Strobing lights two stories up cut bright swaths of green and blue across the wildly dancing throng.  They bounced and twisted in time to the body-shaking bass pounding out of giant speakers suspended from the ceiling that were barely visible through the wafts of smoke roiling overhead.  Laser light cast flickering images across the clouds above and the people below; a projector flashed stock war-footage against a screen--and the broad chest of the mostly-naked man dancing in front of it--set above a booth where an intense-looking little man listened intently to a set of puffy headphones; neon gleamed through transparent panels in the floor; cigarette tips flared red in darkened corners.  People moved in a constant stream to and from the dimly lit bar removed from the dance floor, or sat at the counter on crystalline stools illuminated from within.

              I've seen ghosts, dragons, phoenixes, giant animals and bird people, Akane thought, but I've never seen _this_ before.  Everywhere she looked, sweat-drenched bodies swayed to an unrecognizable beat she could hardly call music.  Arms and legs everywhere seemed interlaced, and some people were even . . . Those people are making out on the dance floor! Akane thought, quickly turning away and blushing bright red.  They're kissing in public!  She guiltily glanced back but the couple was gone, swallowed by the shifting crowd.  A sudden fear gripped her and left her hot beneath her collar, familiar yet very different from what she had felt for most of the night.

              I'm surrounded by perverts!

              A tall, skinny man, wearing nothing but a white high-cut metal-studded leather bikini, sat sprawled on a plush bench alongside the dance floor, with a tiny girl wearing the shortest of black mini-dresses perched on his knee.  She had one arm thrown around his neck and tugged playfully at his beard as Akane passed.  A few steps further, two long-haired girls kissed with a passion that made Akane distinctly uncomfortable--when they came up for air, she realized they were both men.  The bizarre costumes and confusing androgyny wasn't all that shocking to her--when your fiance changes into a girl on a daily basis, you gain some resilience to the whole thing; and Ranma and his entourage had worn their share of stupid outfits over the years--but the whole setting and blatant exhibitionism placed everything in a disturbingly sordid light.

              A well-dressed man held a glass door open, and Takahashi brought her up a curving stairwell into a far quieter section of the bar.  The heavy beat filtered in as a distant thrum, and the youthful cries were cut out by heavy windows that looked out across the dancing crowds below.  The man slid into a luxurious booth next to the window, and after a hesitant pause Akane sat in a chair opposite him.

              "Welcome to the Underground Lounge," he said, and smiled slightly.  "Can I get you anything to drink?"

              Akane just stared at him.  She couldn't think of anything to say.  She sank deeper into the softness of the chair and felt a warm comfort seeping into her legs.  The pane of glass next to her head vibrated slightly.  The reality of the night--the unreality of the night--was catching up to her.  The night? she thought.  Hardly.  Only an hour, if even that, but it felt so much longer.  From the safety of her home to--this.

              "Hey, you okay?" the man named Takahashi asked.

              She gave a quick shake of her head to help clear it.  Focus, she told herself.  You're not home yet, girl.  Putting aside thoughts as to how Ranma was going to find her, she tried to relax and gain some strength from this brief moment of apparent calm.  "I'm. . . ."  She realized she didn't know what to say.  'Fine,' certainly didn't cover it.  'Beyond terrified' didn't make for good conversation.  Akane didn't know what to say and somehow that struck her as terribly absurd at the moment, and much to her own surprise she laughed aloud at her own confusion.  "I'm confused!" she said, and giggled.

              Takahashi grinned.  "I'm sure you are."  He made a brief sweeping gesture that took in the room.  "First time in the Lounge's VIP room?"

              "You--you could say that, yes."

              "It's a bit quiet now, I'm afraid, though some foreign rock band is supposed to come by a little later.  Normally there's a pretty refined crowd up here."  He shrugged apologetically.  "Sorry.  Why, we even had Ayumi Utada a few nights ago."

               "Um, that's okay," she absently answered, thoughts wandering back to the siege on her household.  It was only then that she recognized the face she had punched.  "I already saw her tonight."

              "I'm sure you have."

              "She wasn't as, um, beautiful in person as I'd expected."  Her face bruised my fist, she thought, rubbing absently at her knuckles.

              "People rarely are."

              The man made a subtle gesture, and a waitress appeared at their side.  She was professionally and sexily attired, and quite beautiful, with perfect makeup.  Something about the woman didn't seem quite right, and though Akane couldn't immediately put a finger on it, she kept a discreetly wary eye on the girl as the man placed a drink order.

              "You like our staff?" Takahashi asked, as the waitress walked away.

              Akane frowned slightly.  "That was a man, wasn't it?"

              "I'm impressed!  Most people can never tell--it's a bit of private joke, I suppose." His smile broadened.  "How did you know?"

              "I'm not sure," she answered, and shrugged.  "I hang out with a lot of perverts, I guess."  She wasn't really thinking about what she was saying, her eyes sliding across the room and its sparse population, finally settling on taking in the dancing crowd below.  "My friend's got this transvestite ninja waiter who's really good at. . . ."  She suddenly realized what she was saying and trailed off.  "Um, that is--"

              "Transvestite ninja waiter?"  He leaned back into the sofa, arms thrown wide across the back.  He smirked, eyes dancing with amusement.

              Nice one, Akane, she thought.  "Would you believe I hang out with an interesting crowd?"

              "Yes, I believe I would."

              The waiter returned and placed two drinks on the table.  Her host took a small sip from his, and gestured for Akane to accept the other drink.  After a brief hesitation she accepted, suddenly realizing how thirsty she was.  And tired.  She wasn't physically exhausted, despite running for so long, but she felt emotionally and mentally drained.  It felt surreal to be sitting in the VIP lounge of some bar with a man she didn't know buying her drinks.  She had no doubt that under different circumstances, there was no way she'd accept.  I wouldn't normally even walk _into_ a bar like this, she thought.  And even if I did, this guy would probably be buying drinks for Ranma instead.

              She took a tentative sniff of her drink.  "What is it?"

              "Nothing too strong," he said with an absent wave of his hand.  "Enjoy."

              Akane took a small gulp, grimaced, and put it back.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "I can't drink this."

              Takahashi looked surprised.  "Why not?"

              "Well, there's alcohol in there, right?  I'm only eighteen, I'm underage."  She gave a small chuckle.  "I probably shouldn't even be in here."

              The man leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked at her speculatively over steepled hands.  Akane took her first good look at him, suddenly realizing that, with the overstimulation of the dance floor below, and the distraction of her first moment of relaxation and the feminine waiter, she had all but ignored the man.  He was quite good-looking and probably only a few years older that Kasumi; his clothes were stylish and expensive, even to her undiscerning eye.  She didn't fail to notice the latticework of fine spidery lines tattooed across the back of his hand, briefly glimpsed as his cuffs pulled back.  Takahashi was young and in good shape, and Akane finally noticed that behind the quick grin and bright eyes, something steely and hard glinted as well.

              "Maybe not," the man mused.  "See, now you have _me_ confused."

              "I do?"

              "What are you, Akane?" he asked, though his tone was rhetorical.  "I _thought_ you were just another role-playing little bitch trying to get in cheap.  The way you're dressed, I thought you were looking for a pickup, and I had to admit, you played the part well and looked fantastic, so I let you in.  I pride myself on picking the right people to create the right atmosphere here, and you fit in nicely; and later, I knew you'd go down on your knees easy, just like all the other silly cows that roll through here.

              "But you kept the wide-eyed innocent schoolgirl thing going in the club, and then I _thought_ you were just another silly little girl looking for a spot of naughty excitement.  Which was fine, too.  I'm young and rich and good-looking, I don't give a shit that you're underage, and the challenge of getting you to spread your legs would've made it all the sweeter.  I get my fun, and you've got a wild little story to tell your idiot friends at school, and life goes on.

              "Then you sit here and ignore me, you _refuse your drink_, and you keep a careful eye on the place and people.  But what I took for the amazement of an overwhelmed kid isn't, is it?  You've got the eye of a professional, girl, you saw right through poor Momoko, and though this is _my_ bar and these are _my_ people, somehow, you've got even _me_ feeling edgy.

              "So I wonder, A-Akane," he said, and the contemplative tone slipped away and his eyes turned dark, "who the hell are you?"

              Akane met his hard gaze unflinchingly, leaned forward, and answered in even, measured tones: "I _am_ just an innocent schoolgirl, Mr. Takahashi, and I've been having a very, very bad night, and though I appreciate you letting me in and buying me a drink, if you so much as try anything the least bit perverted, I don't care who you are or how tough you think you may be, I will grab you by the throat and toss you through that window."

              The man smiled coldly.  "Is that so?"

              "Yes, it is, Mr. Takahashi."  The chilliness of her own voice surprised her.  She had no fear of him, and an excited thrill ran through her at the realization.  After the events of the last few hours, this man seemed almost laughably mundane.  The situation was menacing, and she had no doubt that this man knew how to fight, and she was acutely aware of the other men and women hovering nearby, ready--yet all she felt was an exhilarating anticipation of what might come.  Between her own martial skills and Ranma's recent training, Akane had no doubt that she could handle whatever this man threw her way.

              But to her surprise, the man's expression softened, and he even gave a small chuckle as he relaxed into the softness of his seat.  "Well then, I suppose I'd better not try anything!"

              Akane nodded, a little confused--and maybe even a little disappointed--that the situation had been so easily defused.  Takahashi smiled.  "I don't know what your story is, Akane, but you've added some unexpected fun to my evening, and for that I thank you."  He again summoned a waiter over, this one an ordinary looking, if quite handsome, man.  A quick whispered exchange, and then he returned his attention to her.  "You've got the full run of The Underground Lounge tonight as my guest."

              She blinked, unsure if she had heard him right.  "Really?"

              He nodded.  "Really."  He gestured towards the dancing crowd below.  "I get so bored, sometimes, of the usual crowd passing through here.  Like you wouldn't believe.  These disillusioned kids and their silly little fetishes, so mundane in their need to try and shock and stand out in a crowd.  So pathetically desperate in their chase of something they don't understand--so frantic to forget themselves for just a night."  Shaking his head, he turned away from the sight.  "I've had many eager little bitches pass through here and I've hit them with the same sad routine; but you, Akane, are the most genuinely interesting woman I've met in a very long time."

              Takahashi shrugged and stood up and straightened his blazer with a sharp tug.  "Here, maybe this will help," he said, and pulling his wallet from an inside pocket he tossed a few crisply folded bills onto the table.  "One day, you'll have to tell me why you're having such a bad evening."  He stepped away, but at the threshold of a door marked 'staff only' he paused and looked back.  "In the meantime," he added, and grinned, "I simply ask that you try and enjoy yourself.  Go and dance, Akane, and have a drink.  Relax!  You're so tense, you're making even me nervous."

              Withered hands carried the simple unadorned cup to a face lined with decades and worries.  She took a long, slow drink and sighed appreciatively as the hot tea sent tendrils of soothing warmth to exhausted limbs.  Cologne closed her eyes, the subtle taste lingering in her mouth briefly recalling half-formed memories of another place, another time; and then she brought herself back to the moment and nodded silently in approval to the tall woman kneeling opposite her.

              Kasumi gave a small nod of her own, a half-smile that suggested genuine pleasure at her tea being well received.  The girl seemed blissfully untouched by neither the night's events nor the aftermath's bloody cleanup; even the authorities' cursory visit left her unfazed, and somehow her clothes remained unstained.  Yet to the Amazon matriarch's knowledgeable eye, there was the slightest of shadows across the Tendo's daughter's features suggestive of an unchallenged faith newly tested.  In a few moments her rest would end and she would return to tending after her wounded father.

              "You must be tired," Kasumi said, gently placing her cup down.  "It has been a long night for you."

              Cologne smiled wryly.  "For all of us."

              "Indeed," added Nodoka.

              The Amazon matriarch kept her features carefully neutral.  "But especially for you," she said.  "I did not expect you to return so quickly from the hospital."

              The redheaded woman--Cologne could see where Ranma's cursed form got its appearance--gave a slight shrug.  "After they took him into the operating room and I filled out a few forms, the staff said there was nothing I could do."  A sudden far-off look overtook her.  "I had forgotten how masculine a man Genma is," she said wistfully, and then smiled broadly.  "I'm sure he'll be fine!"

              "I hope so as well," the older woman said, and nodded.  "Indeed, by all accounts your husband's heroism may well have saved many of us."

              "And my son's heroism as well," Nodoka insisted, eyes gleaming with a hard light.  "The way he avenged his father's defeat: truly a manly vengeance!"

              "Of course," she agreed in an even voice.  A disturbingly violent vengeance by everyone else's telling, Cologne thought.  There would be a terrible reckoning for his actions.  Ranma was not the type to indulge in such bloody deeds and not feel remorse afterwards.  She saw the savage pain that briefly seized him upon learning their enemies had been human.  Only the interruption of Akane's phone call had saved him from that guilt.  No, not saved: distracted.  Once everything quieted down, the boy would have an entirely new battle to face.  And if women like his mother were the only figures he could turn to. . . .  The old woman took a deep breath and closed her eyes against an unexpected stab of pain and sadness.

              "Are you okay?" asked the eldest Tendo sister in a tentative voice.

              Cologne nodded.  "Yes."

              "Are you wounded?"

              The Amazon smile was self-deprecating.  "A little."

              That obsidian man: whoever or whatever he was, she had never fought an enemy quite like him.  His strength and speed were formidable--beyond hers, she had to admit ruefully.  Sitting in quiet contemplation with a cup of warm tea cradled between her gnarled hands, she had to accept that he had toyed with her.  In moments of bitterness she could blame her loss on age, on the ravages of time.  Held balanced between the elation of hard-earned victory and the despair of near-loss, as she was now, she enjoyed a brief moment of thoughts crystalline clear, devoid of egotism and self-lies--and she accepted that even at her physical peak, she could not have challenged the obsidian monster.  Her opponent had enjoyed playing with her and, like a cat soon bored with a mauled mouse, tossed her aside in the end.  Only his arrogance had allowed her to escape a far worse fate than a mere battering of body and ego.

              But Son-in-law!  Her lips twitched into a smile of reluctant admiration.  Ranma!  The power the boy had exhibited there in the end!  She had heard from her granddaughter of his deeds in China against Saffron, but how the telling paled compared to the reality.  How many warriors had she met, capable of such feats?  Very few.  At his age?  A handful.

              And to think that some of that handful was asleep in this very room.  Her granddaughter and her friends, truly among the best martial artists of their generation.  Their accomplishments went beyond anything she could have hoped.  That thick-headed boy, Ryouga: by Mousse's account, he had exploded the chest of their enemy with the same Blasting Point Technique she had taught him so long ago.  An impossibility!  Dead tissue wasn't 'dead', not in the way cold stone was: the Amazon technique should have done nothing.  Yet it had.  And Ranma: that idiot, stupid boy had had the temerity, the arrogance, the strength of will to try and emulate the technique of a god--and succeed!

              For a moment the old woman felt a shiver of fright.  These youths, these _children_: so young and immature, and yet running around with such power.  But then her fear subsided and she felt an uncharacteristic swell of pride.  She had trained these martial artists, and in some way their accomplishments were her own.  She had abandoned her own village and people to be here, yet knew this was where she was needed.  It was where she wanted to be.  Cologne sensed she was poised at the cusp of something momentous: and these undisciplined, prideful, idiotic, beautiful children were at the center of it.

              "Will you be okay?" Kasumi asked.

              "Yes," Cologne answered.

              The girl in the bathroom mirror was tired and dirty.  Too-tight school uniform ripped, face smudged with sweat and grime, expression harried, eyes dull: I look terrible, Akane thought, and sighed.  She made some nominal efforts to straighten herself out.  After running some water in the sink she splashed her face, then tried to straighten out her stolen clothes.  With a few attempts she even managed to tie the ribbon in front into a proper bow.  But when she checked herself in the mirror again, little had changed: she was still tired and depressed, and still didn't know what to do next.

              Akane stared deep into her own eyes and asked, "What do I do now?"  The brown eyes reflected back held an answer she didn't want to accept.  The realization of what she had to do had been brewing for some time now in the back of her mind, ever since she had broken away from the dueling swordsmen.  No matter how much she poked at her hair or preoccupied herself with tying her ribbon perfectly, the harsh truth was becoming impossible to deny.

              "I can't go home," she whispered to herself, staring sightlessly into the mirror.

              Her knees felt weak, and she leaned heavily against the bathroom counter.  Dampened music made itself dully heard from beyond in what seemed, at the moment, an entirely different world.  There were the rooms outside, filled with perverts and couples and people having fun--whether relaxed or out of desperation, as Mr. Takahashi suggested, seemed irrelevant.  Their lives were ordinary.  After the initial shock of the crowd wore away, Akane recognized how normal these people were, beyond the bizarre surface trappings they wrapped themselves in when they came to this place.  Once the sun rose and they staggered out into the brightly lit rubbish-lined streets, reality would forcefully reassert itself.  Whatever illusion they had crafted around tonight would fade along with the night's chill, and they would wander back to their jobs, schools, boyfriends. . . .

              But for me, Akane thought grimly, it's all horribly real, and if I wander back home I'll just be putting my friends and family in danger again.  The youngest Tendo stared deep into the mirror and beyond it she saw her friends, wounded; her family, bloodied; and Ranma, wrapped in coils of darkness that burned coldly into his skin and carried him to the threshold of death.  What frightened her most at that moment was the realization that he _would_ die to protect her; it was more responsibility than she could bear.  She had to flee, as much from these things pursuing her as from her friends who wanted to defend her.

              "Where can I go?" she asked herself.

              "Back to the dance floor," answered an amused voice, snapping Akane out of her introspection.  A tall, attractive girl stepped up to the counter next to her, and flashed a quick smile.  The sound of flushing water rang from an opened stall behind them.  "You don't want to spend the night staring at yourself, right?"

              "Um, yeah.  I mean, no," Akane stammered.

              The girl opened her purse and leaning towards the mirror, and started touching up her makeup.  "No worries, no worries," she said.  The woman glanced aside before dabbing at her lips with a small brush.  She pursed them, gave a small nod of satisfaction, and shrugged.  "You on mushrooms?  No offense, but you look it.  Some fresh air might help."

              "No--I haven't eaten anything," she answered, wondering why she'd want to eat mushrooms.  She didn't trust them: you never knew when a piece of fungus might revert you to the age of a six-year-old.

              "Fair enough, fair enough."  The woman patted at her face a bit, carefully examining for minor imperfections.  She was sexily dressed, but nothing too outrageous; Akane could imagine Nabiki wearing something similar (though not herself) and looking just as good if not better.  Akane watched her for a moment longer then turned back to the mirror.  Her own attempts at improving her appearance now seemed pathetically ineffectual.  The stranger's hair fell in sleek, straight lines; when Akane tried to smooth down her own, it sprang back into matted coils, held there by sweat and dirt and caked blood.

              "I hope they appreciate the effort," the girl said, smiling as if they were sharing some conspiratorial secret.  "I have to admit, you sure went all out, didn't you?"

              Akane blinked.  "Me?"

              "Oh, don't be so modest!" the other girl said.  "You did an awesome job!  I mean, sure, the school thing is, like, so passe, but what you did--wow.  Perfect.  I've never seen the 'anime ravaged schoolgirl' thing done with such style.  You smudged your makeup just right!  And those rips in the sleeve--le coup de grace!"

              The ravaged schoolgirl looked in the mirror again and thought, I look like crap.

              "You'll be fighting them off with a stick," the girl said, snapping her purse shut and stepping away.  "Just one piece of advice: you want to _look_ like you've just run through an animated hell, fighting for your life," she said, and gave a small sniff.  "But you don't want to _smell_ like it, too."  The bathroom door, after giving way to a short blast of bass-intensive music, swung shut behind the woman.

              Shaking her head in bemusement, she returned to her contemplation at the mirror.  Try as she might, she couldn't think of what to do next.  She should call home--she had the money now, the crisp bills handed to her by Takahashi adding up to a very generous forty-five thousand yen--but was reluctant to do so.  She so wanted to go home, and her tenuous resolve to stay away might easily break.  I have to run, Akane decided, it doesn't matter where right now, I've just got to get out of Shibuya and find somewhere isolated, somewhere I can't be found.

              "Don't you just hate them," another girl next to her asked, her tone rhetorical.  Akane glanced aside, and was surprised to see that the girl next to her was pregnant.  Painted-on tight black Capri pants fell far short of covering her swollen belly, and the silvery tank top, stretched taut across voluptuous breasts, also proved far too short and merely accentuated the belly that bulged out the remaining gap.  Short spiky bleached hair, brightly colored make-up, platform heels: the girl seemed set for a fun night out, though Akane had trouble imagining her dancing at such an obviously late stage of pregnancy.

              "Excuse me?" Akane asked.

              "Those pathetically vacuous girls.  So self-absorbed, so snide and venomous and hurtful, so focused on their appearance, so devoid of depth--poke a hole through their expertly made-up faces and they're empty inside, you know, nothing but dust and shadows."

              "Um, if you say so," Akane answered.

              "But you know better, don't you?" the girl said, staring coolly at her.  "You've got depth, I bet.  You've got something beautiful hidden inside, don't you?  I could waste all night tearing those others open--I could rip those gorgeous faces off and slash those perfect breasts and pull out coil after coil from their bulimic guts, and you know what--there's nothing there!  Nothing nothing nothing!"

              "I think I better be going now," Akane said, backing away slowly.

              "But you're not empty, are you, girl?" the woman insisted, her voice rising in pitch as she took a heavy step towards her.  "You've got something _wonderful_ inside, something precious, don't you?"  As the woman advanced she changed, her skin graying and drooping, eyes sinking deeper into her emaciated face; and even as her body shrank and withered and arced as her spine curved back on itself, her belly swelled grotesquely huge.  "You're like me!  We both have something beautiful inside!"

              The bloated stomach ripped and burst open like a pus-filled boil suddenly lanced; and Akane had a brief glimpse of gray-fleshed fetuses leaping at her, sharp fangs gnashing wetly.  With a terrified scream she turned and ran, the wailing of newborns following closely.

              "Are you still at it?" asked Mousse.

              "What do you care?" Nabiki answered, stepping lightly around her prone captive.  She eyed the new angle speculatively.  No good.  It was hard to capture the passive charm of the unconscious pop star without accentuating the massive quantity of rope binding her.  Sleeping beauty: yes.  Languid sexuality and minor bondage: sure, why not?  Seventeen-year-old girl battered into unconsciousness and wrapped in ten kilos of rope: not most people's idea of a turn on.  Nabiki allowed the camera to drop to her side.  She pinched at the bridge of her nose and sighed.

              Mousse stepped into the dojo.  "I don't," he said, but then began to circle the incapacitated model, his eyes half-concealed behind the moonlight gleam of his lenses.  He cocked his head once, took a few steps back, and then moved a little to the side.  He crouched.  "Here.  Try it from here."

              Nabiki frowned.  "Why should I?"

              "I have an eye for this kind of thing," he answered in a dry voice.

              She allowed a bark of laughter to escape.  "You?"

              Mousse stood up.  "Don't, then."

              Nabiki shrugged and assumed his position.  She cast a critical eye at her subject, and then again through her camera.  After a brief hesitation she snapped a few pictures.

              "You'll find," the Chinese martial-artist said, "that you're better aligned with your secondary light source--that florescent lamp dangling from the wall opposite you.  It's a bit flat and unflattering, like all your Japanese lights, but the moonlight shining in through the broken ceiling helps soften it a bit.  Along with that softer light over _there_, you've got some crude three-point lighting going."  He chuckled.  "Well, not really, but it will do.  You _are_ using black and white film, I assume?"

              She arched an eyebrow.  "Er, yeah.  Special occasion, right?  Of course I am."

              "Good."  He stepped in behind her and joined her crouch.  "See, from here the sweep of her hair helps conceal most of her bonds.  Along with the hard shadows from that light, it's more hinted at than obvious.  True, the angle is from the rear and we mostly see her back, but there's a flash of bare shoulder there, and her cheekbone is also highlighted in profile _there_, and a nice sweep of her neck as the head lolls back.  See?"  He pointed out the areas as he mentioned them.  "Framed right, you can even catch a glimpse of her tied hands.  The tight ropes at her wrist are a nice touch for the proper audience."

              Nabiki slowly lowered her camera.  "Since when did _you_ become an amateur photographer?"

              "I'm not," he said, standing.  "I prefer to paint."

              "To paint?"

              "Does that surprise you?  Unlike someone we both know, I feel a martial artist needs to be a rounded individual, expressing himself creatively through more than a single form."

              "I didn't know that," she said, regaining her feet.

              "There's a lot about me you don't know, Nabiki Tendo."

              "I bet Shampoo loves your paintings."

              "Sadly," he said, a hint of misery creeping into his voice, "she's broken every single painting I've made of her over my head."

              "A pity."

              "She doesn't appreciate the effort and timing required to paint her while she's asleep and unmoving for any length of time," he said, shaking his head sadly.  "My beautiful Shampoo is a very energetic girl."

              "I bet she is," replied Nabiki dryly.

              "Why do you take all these photos, anyway?" he asked.  "I've noticed you doing it to others, too."

              "Well. . . okay.  Take Ranma.  You've seen some of the calendars?"

              "Yes.  Shampoo's got one," he said distastefully.

              "The money off that's decent and all, but that's not why I do it.  The family's not _that_ hard off.  But the boy is just _way_ too full of himself.  I figure I'm helping him by toying with his ego a bit."  She smiled; her first, she realized, since everything had gone crazy.  "Besides, he's good for _endless_ hours of amusement."  Then she smirked and added, "And the pocket change is nice, too."

              "I bet it is."

              "But in this case," Nabiki continued, gesturing towards the unconscious Ayumi Utada, "I'm doing it for money.  My house was flattened, Mousse, worse than any of Ranma's psycho friends--and that's including you, psycho boy--ever managed.  That's just not cool.  I might be playing way out of my league here, but I don't care: I've got one of the hottest stars in Japan tied at my feet, and even if it sinks her career, some quality 'unauthorized' photographs should go a long way towards paying for these damages."

              Mousse nodded but didn't answer, impassively staring at the unconscious girl.  Nabiki remembered him kicking their prisoner earlier.  Most of his bitterness and anger now seemed gone, leaving only bland curiosity.  He swayed slightly as he stood, and she realized the boy was far beyond exhaustion.

              "You should get some sleep," she suggested.

              He nodded again but continued watching the girl.

              "Mousse?"

              "Aren't you curious?" he asked.  "She's an attractive enough girl.  You say she's very popular here across Japan.  Why would she choose to turn into one of the things we've fought tonight?"

              "Who knows?  We don't even know if it's something she 'chose'.  I was hoping to find something in her wallet, but no luck."

              "Nothing at all?"

              "Hey, what do you want?  Her 'Evil Fiend Registration Card'?  The best I got was her driver's license.  That and some money, a few receipts, credit cards--pretty ordinary stuff."  She slipped the license out of her pocket.  "She's twenty years old, 54 kilos, and 160 centimeters tall, for what it's worth, and born in Tokushima prefecture."  Nabiki chuckled.  "Sounds like the farmer's daughter's done good for herself--well, aside from the whole ravenous-demonic-spider thing, that is."

              Looking up, however, she realized Mousse wasn't listening.  Instead, he was roughly pulling the girl across the floor.

              "What the hell are you doing?"

              "I heard her moan," he said.  "She's coming to."  With a final shove he propped her up against a wall.  The girl released another soft moan, and her eyes fluttered.  Nabiki quickly joined the Chinese boy.  They waited for their captive to wake up.  She hoped they might finally receive some answers.

              Ayumi Utada's eyes opened.

              Akane Tendo ran hard and fast through the crowded streets of Shibuya, knocking alcohol-slowed salarymen and fashion-crippled teenaged girls aside as they blocked her way.  When she glanced back she still imagined gray-fleshed abortions scrabbling along the ground in pursuit, bloated little arms carrying them quickly forward, withered legs trailing uselessly, slimy glistening umbilical cords, unformed lips curled, sharp-pointed teeth, and their cat-like yowls echoing like the wailing of a feverishly-starved litter.  Again, her heart thudding against her chest; a pulse-pounding dash through snaking back streets, pachinko parlor flashing lights and love hotel neon wash a luminous cascade across her vision, slow warm burn growing in thighs and chest as she rushed past multitudinous blurred faces that briefly loomed--surprised, shocked, amused, dazed--and slid past, gone, left behind as she raced deeper into the heart of the ward.  The city was utterly silent, the people voiceless, the cars mute, the shops quiet.  All she heard was the furious beating of her own heart and the hot heaving of her own breath, and the incessant twisting of her inner voice as frightened desperate thoughts turned in on themselves.

              She burst onto a main road into an even thicker throng of people surging past, a nonstop flow of cars beyond them; and with a sudden deafening roar sound returned to her, slamming into her with all the physicality of a concrete wall.  She stopped and gasped and, momentarily stunned, stumbled over to a building and clutched at the corner as if trying to keep from being swept away.

              Shit shit shit shit, Akane thought, gasping for breath, blinking against tears springing to her eyes.  That woman!  Those things!  I can't do this--I can't, not alone, where's Ranma, those things were _babies_, they were. . . oh shit, fuck!  She felt like retching, she couldn't remember ever being so frightened in her life, she felt like curling up into a tight ball and hiding at that street corner, she wanted to squeeze into a crack in the pavement and disappear until morning, when the bright sunshine would banish these dark things and friends would come save her and everything would be fine, like they were yesterday, just Ranma and her at the park talking. . . .

              Except that even then Ranma had been on guard, watching for enemies by day; and Mousse and Shampoo had almost been killed in broad daylight; and the park was on the other side of Tokyo; and the stupid jerk was _never_ as nice to her in person as she liked to imagine; and, and . . . .  And the absurdity of her indignant anger somehow cut through the fear, and she giggled--though with a ragged, desperate edge to her laugh that somehow brought Kodachi Kunou to mind.  The thought of the lunatic gymnast--whatever happened to her, she wondered, I'll have to ask Kunou--also struck her as funny-- leotard and ribbon against these monsters chasing her--and that carried another laugh to her lips, and another, except now it sounded more like wracking sobs than laughter. . . .

              Akane lost track of time as she struggled between tears and laughter and gasping for air, leaning heavily against the side of the building, still lost, still alone.  But she quickly caught her breath, and the tears dried, and the urge to giggle subsided.  I'm okay, she told herself.  I can still do this.  Akane took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

              A large crowd surrounded her, staring with a mix of concern and curiosity.  A young girl of around her age tentatively reached out.  "Are--are you okay?"

              It was amazing how quickly one could go from 'deathly afraid' to 'embarrassed to death'.  Akane flushed a bright fiery red and smiled nervously before her unintended audience.  "I'm. . . ah, I'm fine, thank you!" she exclaimed, her voice squeaky.  "Um. . . and you?"

              The girl looked at her oddly.  "I'm fine."

              "Good!  Then we're all fine!"

              "Ooookay," the girl added and, shaking her head, she drifted away.

              People resumed walking, and soon Akane found herself standing alone at the corner.  She looked around in an attempt to orient herself.  Buildings reached high around her, steel and concrete fingers stabbing at the murky sky overhead; and brilliant signs everywhere sent shadows scuttling into the narrow alleys between buildings.  Skyscrapers loomed against the night, imposing brethren to the commercial fashion outlets around her.  To her surprise she recognized one of them.  To her left and further along the road, the massive Tokyu Department store sat where the way split in two.  She heard a sudden roar and clacking sound--a subway rushing into a nearby station--and Akane suddenly oriented herself: this was Bunkamura Street, which led to the main Shibuya train station.  In less than an hour she could be home!

              Without further hesitation she stepped into the flow of people and let it carry her forward.  She took comfort in the bustle and press of people around her.  Moving with the crowd, she followed the road toward the JR station.  She walked quickly, eyes alert, trying to blend in while remaining attentive to her surroundings.  Surely the crowd would react if someone or something tried to attack?

              With her heart pounding in nervous anticipation, Akane stopped at a red light.  She was directly across from the train station.  She scanned the mass of people but saw nothing that struck her as suspicious.  Five roads met and released their human traffic at this single intersection, the busiest in Tokyo.  The sound and bustle of so many people was nearly overwhelming.  She felt a light buzzing across her brain, like a prelude to a headache.  A solid wall of people waited across the road, impatient as the flow of cars and taxis roared by.  Akane glanced up, distracted by a giant video screen set above a second-floor Starbucks; she smiled without humor at the latest Ayumi Utada video being played there.

              The light before her changed.  Green: go.  She resisted the urge to run across the street.  The human swell poured out across the half-dozen pedestrian crossings simultaneously.  Akane moved with the flow.  I'm almost there, she thought.  I'm almost there.

              A sudden movement to her side, aggressive.  Flash of metal, neon gleam: by instinct she twisted aside.  Too slowly.  Someone slammed into her, and the jarring impact knocked her out of the comforting stream of people.  She stumbled into the street.  Recovering with desperate speed, she tried to keep space between her and her surprise attacker.  Akane stepped back, into the very center of the intersection.  Everywhere she looked, unseeing people walked quickly in straight lines across the streets, forming shifting walls surrounding her.  She turned desperately but saw no escape, and even the towering buildings stabbing upwards seemed encircling, entrapping.  From the flow of people stepped tall men bearing large swords, and their armor glinted as dark cloaks fell aside.

              "This is as far as you go, girl," pronounced the lead man, and she recognized him from before: Yamashita.  Three men followed, forming a semi-circle behind him.  "There'll be no escape for you this time."

              "Why don't you leave me alone!" Akane screamed at them.  Somewhere deep inside, a deep fury suddenly ignited beneath the overwhelming fear she felt.

              "You should listen to her," a dry voice called out, and from behind another man she recognized stepped from the crowd: Takeshi.  Others walked behind him, weapons drawn.  They waited protectively at his side, mirroring the men standing opposite.

              "You won't stop me again," Yamashita spat.

              "Really?"  Takeshi gestured toward the encircling wall of pedestrians.  "In just over sixty seconds the lights are going to change.  Your little sorceries might blind these people to our presence, but they won't do much against a Honda Civic.  I don't have to beat you, Yamashita, I just have to hold you off for a single short minute."

              The men glared at each other across the open space.  The cacophony of voices seemed almost subdued here in the middle of the intersection, the unexpected eye of an urban tornado.  A strange calm settled over Akane as she watched these men argue over her fate.  Her fear abated slightly; her anger continued to grow.

              "There's a statue over there," Yamashita began, the tone of his voice nearly conversational though he spoke quickly, each word pronounced succinctly.  "It's called Hachiko, and it's in honor of a dog.  The story goes that a foreign teacher used to live here, and would take the train to work every day.  His dog would accompany him to the station, and loyally await his return at night.  One day, the man died while away.  He never came back.  But Hachiko waited.  He waited for days and weeks for his master to return.  But of course the man never did, and eventually the dog died, loyal until the end.

              "Trust us Japanese to reward such blind faith with a statue.  But we of the three Orders, we're no different, are we?  We're no better than some stupid dog.  For centuries we have loyally fought for and awaited the return of something long dead and gone!  Those to whom we're pledged are dead, Takeshi!  Our Orders are enslaved to a dream and an impossibility.  We've kept our promises for long enough--it is time for us to break away from the past and embrace what we've forged for ourselves here in the present!"

              Akane braced herself.  She could see the men opposite her tense for a charge.  Less than thirty seconds before the light changed.

              "Still trying to justify your betrayal, Yamashita?" Takeshi shouted back.  "Who are you trying to convince: yourself or me?"

              Yamashita's visage twisted in rage.  He shouted in a language Akane couldn't understand.  With a fierce yell he charged, his men closely following; Takeshi and his companions echoed his cry as they leapt forward to meet the attack.  Caught in the middle, Akane awaited her chance to break away.

              An unearthly shriek from above rang out.  Akane leapt aside as something grotesque and spider-like landed where she had been standing.  She scrambled away and recognized her attacker, and her stomach tightened in renewed fright: the pregnant woman from the Underground Lounge.

              "For the Father!" it shrieked, and its swollen belly burst open and disgorged its hideous offspring.  Tiny gnashing figures snarled and wailed as they leapt at the men.  Akane lashed out with a kick and her foot impacted with something soft and fleshy; and even as she stepped down she was pushing away, rushing towards her human attackers.  An enormous blade whistled overhead as she ducked and slipped past an unknown young man, and with a deft step she hooked his rear leg and sent him sprawling.  She ignored the man's scream as a gray bloated figure latched onto his head.  Akane fled into the crowd.

              She spared a glance back.  Yamashita and Takeshi were standing back to back, fighting in unison against their monstrous fetal attackers.  There was another creature in their midst, something tall and gangly with far too many limbs, against whom the armored men were combating together.  Maybe they'll take each other out, she thought without much hope, turning away and resuming her run toward the station.  She shoved her way past protesting people.  A tall, freckled young schoolgirl yelled angrily at her, the brown skirt of her school uniform flaring out as Akane knocked her down.

              "Watch it!"

              "Sorry!" Akane muttered, pushing her way through the girl's friends.  She emerged from the crowd onto the street on the side of the station.  Only then did she realize that she hadn't seen the pregnant woman when she'd first glanced back.

              Instinct again saved her as she dove forward and slid across the concrete floor.  With a hiss the woman landed, body still curved impossibly back, bulging abdomen held high, spider-like, head hanging down between claw-like limbs.  This time the crowd reacted: with loud screams of terror and fright, people scattered and fled.  The creature hissed as Akane flipped to her feet.  Its belly pulsed and squirmed unnaturally as it crept towards her.

              Instead of fleeing or freezing up in terror, Akane suddenly felt her anger overwhelm her fear, and with a loud scream of rage she charged.  The creature spat something wet and green at her, and Akane leaned aside and narrowly avoided it; and rapidly closing, she slammed one fist down with the power of a sledgehammer into its bulbous stomach.  "Leave!" Akane shrieked, kicking one foot into its dangling head.  "Me!"  Another punch, and another, her full strength thudding into the creature's side with shuddering impact.  "Alone!"  With a final yell she unleashed the strongest kick she could muster, and the woman went flying back into the wall.  Breathing heavily, she watched as it slumped to the ground. . .

              . . . only to quickly rise again, unhurt.

              Akane smiled wanly.  "Um, sorry about that?" she stammered, and turned and ran, the creature scuttling quickly after her.  People scattered out of her way, screaming as they caught sight of the thing behind.  In desperation Akane slowed enough to knock display stands and vending machines over in her wake, and was briefly rewarded as it halted to avoid the crash of machinery.  Then it leapt to the wall and continued its pursuit, effortlessly sticking to the vertical surface.

              A loud roar overhead: the sound of an arriving train.  Akane dashed deeper into the station.  Chaos erupted as the monster followed.  There: an exit leading up to the train's platform.  Without hesitation she ran for the stairs, hopping over an obstructing turnstile.  She took the steps four at a time.  She could feel the thing snapping at her heels.  Her breath caught in her throat, heart hammering an impossible beat.  She reached the top of the stairs with a final jump.  Planting her feet solidly, she twisted, arms held high.  She hammered a blind, fierce double-handed blow down at the monster.  Her fists connected solidly even as it leapt at her with reaching claws.  With a squeal it fell back, hitting the stairs hard and tumbling back down.

              Akane ran for the train.  It waited with open doors.  She was vaguely aware of a whistle ringing out, of an amplified voice calling for final boarding.  With rapidly dwindling energy she dashed onto the train.  The doors remained open behind her.  Back at the platform, she saw her pursuer emerge at the top of the stairs.

              "Close!" Akane screamed at the doors.  "Close!"

              The monster rushed the train.  The doors slid shut.  The woman slammed against them.  There was a brief moment before the train jerked into motion in which her opponent uncurled, standing up on two feet and returning to an almost-human appearance.  The same spiky-haired face that had spoken to her in the bathroom pressed up against the Plexiglas window.

              "I want you," the woman mouthed, and though her face was human, wildly rolling eyes over bared teeth revealed an animalistic hunger.  The train pulled away.

              Akane collapsed onto a seat.  Only once her hurried breathing and pounding heart subsided did she realize that she was shaking, and that blood pooled at her feet.

              Ranma stormed out of the bar, angry and frustrated.  His chest was still heaving after the rooftop dash south from Nerima to Shibuya.  There hadn't been time to change his clothes.  No time for hot water.  He'd even forgotten his wallet.  Only time for Akane.  Every moment counted, he had to find her before it was too late.  Back at the shattered phone booth there hadn't been any signs of where she had gone, but nor had there been any blood.  The last he had noted with considerable relief.

              Without any other ideas he had checked the bar she had mentioned, Neo, in the hopes that she had doubled back.  Nothing.  In desperation he had started to raid every other bar and club in the area.  There were too many of them.  He was on the verge of giving up his frantic search and switching to another tactic--though he had no idea of what that might be--when he stumbled across the Underground Lounge.

              Akane had been here.  The dance club was a chaotic disaster.  People were gibbering about giant furless rats and screaming babies.  Judging by the rest of the night, it sounded like something his fiancee must have left in her wake.      That was less than twenty minutes ago, Ranma thought.  Where would she have gone?  If something had been in close pursuit, she would have had to flee on foot, which meant he still had a chance to overtake her--but which way?  He scanned the surrounding streets.  Which way, he asked himself, would an uncute thick-headed tomboy go?

              Please be okay, Akane. . . . .

              He noticed a phone booth across the street and, with no other ideas, jogged over to it.  A moment's searching didn't turn up any coins on his person.  With a shrug, he popped his fist through the hard plastic casing of the phone and ripped the side open.  Coins showered out.  He snagged a couple, slipping them into his pocket, and slid a hundred yen into the slot.  He called the Tendos.

              "Hello?" answered Kasumi after a few rings.

              "Kasumi, it's me."  He nearly winced at the sound of his own female voice: weary, desperate.

              "Oh, my!  Ranma?  Where are you?"

              "I'm still in Shibuya.  I haven't found Akane.  Has she called or anything?"

              "I'm sorry, but she hasn't.  Oh, I certainly hope she's okay."

              Suddenly feeling guilty for further worrying the oldest sister, he tried to soften his voice.  "I'm sure she is, Kasumi.  Akane's a tough girl.  Listen, I have to keep. . . ."

              "One second, Ranma.  Mousse wants to talk to you."

              There was a sound of the phone being passed along.  Ranma wondered why the Chinese boy would want to talk to him.  He looked around as he waited, watching the people as they passed by.

              "Ranma?  This is Mousse."

              "Hey, man, what's up?  Listen, I'm in a bit of a hurry--"

              Mousse cut him off.  "Our captive is awake."

              "We have a captive?"

              "Shut up, will you?  She had interesting things to say.  About who she is, and the man she follows.  This is important.  These people, there are a lot of them, they are part of some kind of family calling themselves--"

              But Ranma wasn't listening.  Eyes wide, he stared across the street at a man staring back at him.  The martial artist recognized the man; he had seen him twice before.  Standing outside Akane's door the night all this began, and again after defeating--no, killing--the first of these creatures.  The man stood a full head taller than most of the people who walked by, hands sunk deep into the pockets of his long coat.  Long blond hair made him conspicuous among the crowd, as did the dark round glasses he wore; yet nobody seemed to take notice of him as they flowed around and past.  When the man seemed assured that Ranma had noticed him, one side of his mouth twitched into a smirk.  He nodded once and then turned away and disappeared into a side street.

              "Hey, idiot, are you listening to me?" came Mousse's angry voice.

              "Gotta go," Ranma said, dropping the receiver and leaping after the man named Gabriel.

              This, Akane thought, is embarrassing.

              The sound of ripping fabric sounded obnoxiously loud to her ears as she tore another strip off the skirt of her stolen uniform.  Not that anyone reacted or said anything.  The other passengers sharing the late-night train kept their attention fixedly elsewhere.  Well, almost everyone.  One foreigner kept taking surreptitious wide-eyed glances at her, and she thought she'd glanced a camcorder in the rolled up magazine of a nearby salaryman.  Perverts, she growled to herself.  Aside from her covert audience, heads buried into newspapers or oversized manga magazines pointedly ignored her as she formed makeshift bandages for her injured side.

              When I clobbered that thing, she thought, it must have slashed me with one of its claws.  A jagged line across her ribs bled insistently, pain lancing across her chest if she twisted too quickly.  That thing almost got me, she realized.  Somewhere deep inside she knew she ought to be chilled by the fact, but Akane somehow felt numb to the reality.  I almost got killed, she told herself, and then shrugged.  It's hardly the first time.

              And I doubt it'll be the last time, she added morosely.

              Akane tried to preserve a modicum of modesty but her clothes left little to the imagination.  She tore off the bottom part of her blouse--leaving her midriff bare--and wadded it up into a rough compress.  A crude bandage made from the shreds of her skirt kept it tied securely in place.  She gave the knot at her opposing side a final tug and nodded in satisfaction.  Letting her shirt fall back--and trying to ignore the way it draped off her breasts, falling far short of her navel--she flopped back into her seat.  There.  That'll do.  It'll have to.

              Once she had a moment to relax, she realized she had no idea where the train was headed.  It didn't really matter, of course: anywhere was better than being on the train platform with that swollen-bellied monster.  The map over the exit told Akane that she was on the Yamanote line.  It circled through the heart of Tokyo, and if she waited long enough it would eventually bring her right back to Shibuya.  A glance out the window confirmed she was moving clockwise and heading north.

              What a night, she thought.  Akane wondered if she was slipping into shock.  She felt curiously numb and relaxed inside.  Aside from a slight buzzing headache and the pain in her side, she was fine, the burn of exhaustion draining from her legs and chest even as she rested.  With that rest came the freedom to think about her situation.

              Where am I going to go? she asked herself.

              If she got off the train on one of the northern stations along the loop, she could catch a separate line that would bring her closer to home.  She was minutes away from Shinjuku station--she could make the connection there and take the Toei Oeido line into Nerima.  But, she forcibly reminded herself, I _can't_ go home.  My friends and family are there and I can't--I won't--put them in danger again.  Whoever these people and things fighting over me are, at least some of them know where I live.  They could be waiting for me at my house.

              Then her thoughts grew despondent and she added: but if I don't go home, where can I go?  I've been running all night, and I can't keep this up forever!  A day, a week, how long am I supposed to stay hidden?  Years?  Alone. . .  I can't do this alone.  I'm not strong enough.

              Akane's face burned at her admission of weakness.  _Shampoo_ wouldn't be sitting half-naked on some train whining about her future, she thought.  She'd be ready to make the sacrifice.  Ukyou had _already_ made the sacrifice, giving up ten years of her life, femininity and family in pursuit of a childhood oath.  And here I'm faced with giving up my family, friends, and school--with people's lives hanging in the balance!--and I hesitate.  All my life I've waited for a _real_ challenge, that moment when I could show everybody that I _am_ a martial artist, a true warrior; but faced with the reality I've become a coward.  Her headache subsided as hot, heavy tears sprang to her eyes.  She struggled to stifle a sob but it escaped, loud and racking, and she buried her face in her hands.  I'm so weak, I'm crying again, I'm alone and useless and I can't make it on my own. . . .

              But you're not alone, a suspiciously unsympathetic masculine voice interrupted, you stupid tomboy.  Like, didn't I say I was comin'?

              You jerk, she told the voice in her head.  _You're_ the reason I have to stay away.

              Now what kinda stupid talk is that?  Like anything's gonna happen to me.  I rock!

              But you almost died tonight!

              Oh, you are _so_ uncute.

              Idiot!  Pervert!

              Akane found herself grinning despite herself, her tears already subsiding.  I can't believe it, she thought, we even argue in my own imagination.  She wanted him with her so much at that moment; she had to keep him away before he did something to get himself killed trying to protect her.  I couldn't live with that, she told herself.  I've already cost him his father. . . .

              A sudden image of Mr. Saotome leaping past her and interrupting the charge of the creature behind sprang up in her mind.  Ranma's father, standing frozen with an arm speared straight through his chest.  There had been less blood than she would have expected.  He had had a curious smile on his face.  A familiar mischievous glint to his eyes.  Slumping to his knees and falling back.  And then: Ranma's tortured scream of loss and rage, as he tore his enemies apart.

              Enemies, like that bloated woman from the club.  Who erupted from apparent normalness into the monstrous form that chased her through the streets of Shibuya.  She remembered the hungry, hateful eyes that stared at her through the subway's window.  Had the attackers at her home been ordinary people as well?  Ordinary people that Ranma had--

              How can I ever face him again?  I've taken his father from him; I've forced him to kill.  There hadn't been time to fully appreciate what had happened until this very moment.  Guilt welled up within as the train continued to speed its way through the outer edge of Shibuya.  She stared out the window watching the urban landscape blur past, wishing for the familiarity and peace of a time not long ago.  The train slowed and halted at the next stop along the line, but no one boarded her car.  Preoccupied as Akane was, she hardly noticed.  Ranma told me to stay back, she thought.  He said it was too dangerous, that I was out of my league.  He was right, but I didn't listen.  I tried playing at martial artist and look what it cost him.  And now I'm doing it again!  Are more people going to die because of me?

              Why are these people after me! she wanted to scream, angry frustration rising up through her guilt.  What do they want?  What the hell makes me so important?  Guilt, Genma Saotome, loneliness and fear, sacrifice, three girls dead already, nothing normal, university dilemma, martial arts and failure, other people's bravery, fathers, Ranma. . . .  a sudden flurry of desires, needs, fears assaulted her mind, a tempestuous rush of thoughts through which she saw no solution, no end; and she gasped at the sudden redoubling of the hammering in her head.  

              The pain caused her to raise her head, the heel of one hand pressed to her forehead.  The other people on the train quickly looked away, avoiding her gaze.  All but one: a tall man with dark flinty eyes.  He stared back at her from across the length of the car.  A tight-lipped smile split his long, narrow face as he noticed her attention.  He slid the door shut behind him without breaking eye contact.  He took a moment to straighten his tie and adjust his suit blazer, and then with measured, unhurried steps he walked forward.

              Somehow Akane knew she didn't want this man to reach her.

              Here we go again, she thought grimly, regaining her feet.  Which one is he?  Does he have a blade hidden under his blazer?  Is he about to change into something hideous?  And how the hell did he find me?  The man noticed her reaction but didn't break stride.  Akane took a hurried step back to maintain distance.  It didn't take long for her to bump into the door behind.  The man's smile widened at her retreat.

              Akane threw the door open, and the next, and moved into the next car.  She was heading toward the back of the train.  She ran down the car's near-empty length, checking over her shoulder for pursuit.  The man maintained his steady walk, though his pace quickened slightly.  The end of another car: she passed through into the next, and with a sinking sensation saw that it was the last.  She moved to near the back without knowing where to go next.  Her pursuer slid the final door shut.  He stopped several meters away.  A scattering of uninterested people barely even glanced up at their entrance.

              "My, my," the man said, his voice deep and smooth.  "Little kitten, you've led us on quite the chase tonight."

              Akane didn't answer.  She watched him carefully.  Was he a normal man?  If so, she felt some confidence that she might be able to hold her own.  But if he was like the woman from the club, and something terrible lurked beneath his calm facade. . . .

              "It would seem that you've run out of places to run."

              Akane's eyes darted to the door.  She noticed the emergency stop button next to it, covered under glass.  The man must have noticed, for his smirk grew.  "Go ahead.  It won't do you any good."  He took a step toward her.

              "Stay away," she growled, stepping back.

              "I don't think so," he answered.

              Their exchange caught the other passengers' attention.  One young couple, lost in a passionate embrace, didn't look up; a disheveled salaryman, passed out on his seat, released a loud snore; but a young, rough looking man with 'Harajuku Dragons' painted across his leather jacket suddenly stood and interposed himself.

              "Oi, buddy, what's goin' on here?"

              "This doesn't concern you," answered her stalker.

              Akane was thankful for the interruption, but knew that if she couldn't handle it, the odds are this guy couldn't either.  "Maybe you should listen," she spoke up.  "I don't want you to get hurt."

              The wannabe savior glanced back incredulously.  "Excuse me?"  he exclaimed angrily.  "Are you telling Akira Nobuyaki he might get hurt?  No little girl tells Akira Nobuyaki that he might get hurt!"  He turned back on the other man.  "And the day some suit-wearing jackass pansy tells Akira Nobu--"

              "Akira Nobuyaki," the man interrupted, and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.  "You're not a hero."  He gave a one-armed shove, sending the young man hurtling back.  He crashed into a side window of the train, cracking it, bounced off and slammed into the floor.  The boy called Akira Nobuyuki struggled briefly to stand.  He managed to raise his head, pronounced, "that hurt, you know," and passed out.

              The man turned back to Akane.  "Right.  No more interruptions."

              There was a loud clang and thud overhead.  Akane glanced up, as did the man opposite her.  She saw through the window what looked like enormous mottled arms clutching at either side of the train.  Suddenly the ceiling overhead collapsed inward, and Akane had a glimpse of long claws piercing through the roof.

              "No!  It can't be!" the man yelled, jumping back.

              With a fierce screech of tortured metal the top of the train was ripped wide open.  The subdued sound of the train's passage became a howling wind in the exposed car.  The other passengers shrieked and cowered at the massive, bestial head that peered in.  Opalescent eyes flickered and focused on Akane.  The jaw dropped open, revealing rows of jagged teeth--and it roared, a high-pitched reverberating yowl that stabbed at her ears and set the windows trembling.

              Akane jumped at the door, her fist smashing the emergency stop button.  The train jerked and shrieked as it decelerated.  She grabbed at a pole and kept her feet as others were tossed forward.  Her pursuer stumbled, one shoulder clipping a seat and sending him crashing painfully into the floor.   The thing clinging to the top of the train seemed thrown off balance, momentarily disappearing from the hole gaping in the ceiling.  Even before the train had come to a complete stop, Akane tore the emergency escape window open.  A fearful cry escaped her lips as she leapt from the still-moving train.

              She hit the ground hard, tumbling head-over-heels before coming to sliding stop in a heap of gravel.  Pain flared everywhere; she felt trickling wetness across her body.  Akane ignored it all.  She jumped to her feet.  Her immediate surroundings were cloaked in darkness, but in the distance a multitude of lights glimmered and flashed.  She stood in the middle of the train yard outside Shinjuku station.  Dozens of tracks ran on either side of her, many disappearing into the underground passage leading to the station.  Even as she regained her bearings a train rushed by mere meters away, the wind of its passage tearing at her torn and tattered clothing.

              Not far away, the Yamanote-line train shuddered to a final stop.  Against the darker backdrop of the tunnel and over the flickering internal lights of the vehicle, she saw a hulking shape squatting atop the train.  The cars shook and trembled amidst the sound of creaking metal, and suddenly the silhouette was gone.

              It just jumped for me, Akane realized, and she broke into a run.  A moment later the ground shuddered behind her.  A shower of stinging rocks pelted her back.  In the gaping openness of the yard, she headed for the only object that seemed to offer any protection: the train itself, and hopefully the tunnels beyond it.

              The wind howled in her ears as she dashed for the train.  Any moment she expected to feel one of those awful claws tear through her.  She heard something heavy and terrible loping after her.  The doors of the train loomed open, welcoming as the other passengers fled.  Heavy breathing sounded directly behind her.  Some instinct led her to dive forward; she hit the ground and rolled back onto her feet and kept running, and she heard the earth being rent asunder in her wake.

              A final effort: she dashed into the train and dove behind a seat.  A second later the immense head of the thing pursuing her filled the door.  It's huge! Akane thought, peeking from her cover.  What the hell can I do against this thing?  Its massive distended lower jaw drooped open, and flared nostrils sucked in the air.  The stench of its breath stung her nose.  The head withdrew, and Akane felt the ground shudder as it stepped along the side of the train.

              She scurried along the floor of the car, keeping low.  A moment later there was a terrible crash as one massive paw tore through the wall a few meters from where she'd been.  Glass showered the inside of the car and the lights erupted in sparks.  Another fist crashed in, and with a resounding roar the thing outside tore the train in two.  Metal buckled and every window shattered as the car cracked open, and Akane sprang from her crouch and hurled herself through the sliding doors further along the train.

              The wall behind her was ripped off and the monster outside stared in at the martial artist.  It pulled away--but only so it could reach in with one giant fist.  She scrambled back, barely remaining out of its reach.  It stretched deeper--without thinking, Akane reached back and wrenched a pole from its fixture.  She slammed it down across the knuckles of the grasping paw.  The metal resounded loudly and vibrated madly in her grasp.  She heard its animalistic cry, and the fist withdrew.

              Akane turned and fled for the next doors.  Before she reached them the entire car shuddered.  She fell forward, her jaw banging painfully against the hard floor.  Her escape suddenly seemed to draw further away; and she realized that the beast had just body slammed her car away from the rest of the train.  I'm trapped! she thought wildly.  I have to get away, into the tunnel!  She hoped it was too big to follow her deep into the station.

              The young woman rose into a ready crouch.  Her heart hammered inside her chest.  She waited for it to make its next move.  Much to her surprise, she heard a voice call out:

              "She's mine, Trueblood!"

              Akane risked a glance out the window.  She saw the man from earlier standing outside the train.  Crouched opposite was the mammoth newcomer.  Even in its squatting dog-like pose, it was an easy three meters in height.  It resembled a massive canine, but with mottled hairless flesh and a disproportionately large head.  Claws the size of her forearms dug troughs in the train yard earth.

               It seemed to observe the man curiously for a moment, then a deep thrumming resounded from within its throat--laughter, Akane quickly realized.  Its mouth dropped open and to her surprise it spoke, though its speech was nearly incomprehensible to her ears.  The jaw didn't move and she wondered where the voice came from.

              "Traitor's child," it growled.  "The Key.  Is ours."

              "You won't stop me," the man answered.  "_I_ will kill her."

              Again that deep, mocking thrumming.  "Too weak.  Too human."

              "Won't Mother Ryukiko be pleased," the man said, "when she learns that I tore out the throat of a Trueblood?"

              Akane stifled a scream as her earlier pursuer suddenly exploded in a gout of flesh and blood.  But once the gore cleared from the air, she saw the man had changed into something lupine and hairy, with claws and teeth that glinted in the light.  Tiny in comparison to the other beast, it nevertheless tilted its head back and released a howl that sent shivers throughout her body.  The transformed man charged the massive beast.  It responded with a shuddering roar of its own and lunged forward.

              But the martial artist was no longer watching.  Without waiting to see the outcome, Akane Tendo dashed from the train and ran as hard as she could for the tunnel into Shinjuku station, all the while wondering, what the hell is going on?

              "Alright, buddy," Ranma snarled, stepping into the back alley, "what the hell is going on?"

              The tall man stood staring into the display window of a store.  The shifting electric light of a big-screen television set the glass aglow and sent flickering shadows across the narrow street.  The hum of vending machines filled the alley.  He turned at Ranma's approach.  "Ranma Saotome," he said, smiling, "it's good to see you again.  My name is Gabriel."

              "Yeah, I know," Ranma answered, stalking up close.  "I've been meaning to give you something."  Without hesitation, he cracked a punch across the man's jaw.

              Gabriel's head snapped back; he stumbled a few steps.  Ranma kept close, grabbing the man by the front of his long coat.  He hauled the taller man down to his feminine eye-level.  "I don't like games, asshole.  You were there when this shit started.  You were there at my first fight.  Didja watch the whole friggin' show tonight too, you sicko?"

              The man looked back at Ranma, his eyes still enigmatically hidden behind small dark glasses.  He rubbed at his chin and nodded.  "I saw everything."

              "Yeah, I bet you did," Ranma yelled, growing angrier.  "Didja see our house get torn apart?  Didja see Pop nearly die?"  He gave the man a hard shake.  "How about when I tore those guys into shreds, eh, you see that too?"

              The man reached up and gently pried himself free of the boy's suddenly unresisting fingers.  "Yes," Gabriel answered softly, "I saw it all."

              "Where's Akane?" Ranma asked, his voice nearly catching in his throat.  "Where is she?"  All the frustration and exhaustion of the night came bubbling up through his body, threatening to overwhelm him.  He sagged against the smooth glass of the window.  He felt near the point of collapse, but he knew he couldn't rest, not yet, not until he found Akane.  "Please," he whispered, rubbing one hand across his eyes, fighting back sudden tears, "tell me."

              The strange man's features softened into something resembling sadness--though with his eyes hidden, it was hard to tell.  He straightened to his full height and looked past the martial artist.  The alley opened up onto the main street, the throng of people passing by; but the man's eyes seemed fixed on something less substantial.  "I should have come sooner," the man said, though he seemed to be speaking less for Ranma's benefit than for his own.  "It's not easy, you understand."  He turned back to Ranma.  "I told you the night we first met: it's my duty to watch--not to intervene, not to act--only to watch.  It's what I do.  I'm unable to directly get involved."

              "Yeah, well, that's just great," Ranma mumbled, taking a deep breath.  He pushed back his fatigue, locking it away somewhere deep inside.  "Then you just keep on watching.  If you're not gonna help, what use are you?"

              "That's for you to decide."

              "Where's Akane?"

              "I can't tell you that."

              "Can't?  Or won't?"

              The man shrugged helplessly.

              "Then fuck you," Ranma spat, and turned away.  He headed for the main street.  "I'll find her myself."

              "Ranma Saotome," Gabriel called after him, "your fiancee is in great danger."

              The martial artist paused.  He slowly turned back, incredulous.  "Hey, thanks for the news flash, nimrod!"  He stormed back.  "You think I don't know that?"  Without breaking stride he walked up to the man and grabbed him by his lapels.  He slammed him up against the storefront window.  It nearly cracked from the impact.  "These things have been trying to kill her all night!"

              "No," the man answered, "they haven't."

              Ranma stared at the man for a long moment.  The reflection of his own face in the windowpane--still female--was nearly unrecognizable to him: gaunt, haggard, and bloodied.  "What the hell are you talking about?"

              "And when night darkens the streets," spoke Gabriel, his voice grim, "then wander forth the Children of Belial, flown with insolence and wine."  His voice quickened as he continued.  "So spoke a blind poet long ago.  To the few who know of their existence, these creatures you have fought these last two days are called the Children of Belial."  Something in the way he pronounced the name sent an unpleasant shiver through Ranma.

              "Hey, they've got a name, great.  Listen, I'll be honest, I don't really give a shit.  All that matters is--"

              "Finding Akane.  But others seek her as well.  The Children, though they often fall to fighting among themselves, are now united by a single purpose: the death of your fiancee."

              "Hey, you said they weren't trying to kill her!"

              "The Children are divided into clans.  Those you have thus far encountered were led by Akuji--the obsidian man you fought.  He is among the strongest and most enigmatic of the Children, though his clan itself was among the weakest before their defeat at your hands.  He has betrayed the entire Family tonight.  He seeks to use your fiancee to his own ends.  He sought to capture her, not destroy her."

              Ranma loosened his grip on the man without releasing him.  He took small comfort from the fact that this man insisted that the attackers tonight hadn't been trying to kill Akane.  "Why the hell would anyone want _her_?"

              "Contained within her body is something . . . valuable.  It threatens the very existence of the entire Family.  They fear and despise her more than anything.  Her death means their survival.  They will stop at nothing to kill her.  Even now another clan draws close to her.  But as for why Akuji wants her, even I can not say."

              "Fantastic," said Ranma.  "Stupid tomboy."

              "There's more," added Gabriel.

              "I can't wait."

              "Your fiancee has encountered others in her flight across Tokyo.  Those originally sworn to the protection of the object buried within your fiancee now seek to reclaim it.  They would lay down their lives to ensure the Children never achieve their goal."

              "Nice.  Allies are good."

              "However," Gabriel continued, "Even among these men, dissention has forced a split.  While some would take the girl alive, a splinter group calling itself the Imrah seek to end their pledge through her death."

              "You're just full of good news, aren't 'cha?"

              "Fortunately, their dislike for each other is only surpassed by their hatred of the Children."

              "Yay for us."  Ranma let the man go.  He still felt exhausted and numb, but knew he couldn't waste any more time in talking.  He had to resume his search for Akane--although he still didn't have any idea where to look.

              "My words are to be taken seriously," the tall man said gravely.  "You and your fiancee have stumbled into a war that has been waged in secret for millennia.  You have no idea of the enemies you face, nor of the stakes at hand."

              "The stakes at hand?" Ranma answered incredulously.  "The life of the woman I. . . ."  He cut off, voice suddenly hoarse.  "Akane's life is at stake.  That's all I care about."

              "Some things are more important than a single person's life."

              "Not to me," said Ranma.  "That single person's life is the most important thing in the world to me.  I'd die for her."

              "Mark my worse, Ranma Saotome.  There are worse fates than death"

              "Yeah, well," he said, shrugging his shoulders and turning away, "Akane'll never have to know that, and that's all that matters.  Now if you'll excuse me, I don't got time for this."  He went to leave but paused.  "You know," he said, "you could've told me all this at the beginning."

              "I saw no reason to," Gabriel answered.  "Few have encountered the Children and survived."

              "Yeah, well, you can add another to that list.  You're not gonna help?"

              The man shook his head.  "I can not intervene directly."

              "Then you just keep on watchin', 'cuz I'm gonna find Akane and--"

              His voice trailed off as he focused past the window.  The image on the television bounced wildly--live news footage of ongoing chaos.  Dozens of people ran screaming mutely across the screen.   Flashing text proclaimed: Outbreak of violence across Tokyo!  People wounded!  Escaped animals!  Sudden fighting in Shinjuku station!  Ranma's eyes widened.

              "How the hell did she get to Shinjuku?" he exclaimed, and ran off.  A moment later he jumped back into the alley, popped a coin into a vending machine, and grabbed a hot coffee.  "Hold on, Akane!" Ranma cried out.  "I'm coming!"  He leaped to the top of the building and dashed across the skyline.

              The man left behind smiled briefly before stepping away into the shadows.  A moment later, the television screen flickered and died.  Empty, the alley grew dark once again.

               The roar of another passing train drowned out the sound of her hurried footsteps.  Akane ran down the narrow concrete walkway that lined the tunnel plunging into Shinjuku station.  She clutched at the tatters of her borrowed school uniform against the rushing winds left in the train's wake.  The air felt dirty and heavy.  The thin pools of orangish light cast surreal wavering shadows against the opposing stone wall.

              Earlier reverberations of bestial roaring and combat had dwindled with distance.  Akane took little reassurance from this.  They've been catching up to me all night, she thought desperately, how the hell are they keeping up to me?  _I_ don't even know where I'm going, but they keep finding me!  The tunnel curved ahead and she stuck to the left branch, and ahead saw the bright lights of a boarding platform.

              The walkway ended.  She could see a scattering of people waiting for their late-night train home.  Not wanting to jump down onto the tracks, she turned instead to the metal door set into the wall.  It was locked; a quick kick dented it, and another crumpled it nearly in two--with an easy yank she ripped it from its hinges.  Up a cast-iron stairwell, her steps ringing loudly in the narrow space; down a short passage, and another door: without breaking stride she bashed it open with a flying kick.  She tumbled out onto the platform.  The half-dozen people there turned at the noise, surprised.

              "Er, sorry about that," Akane said, brushing herself down and catching her breath.  They goggled at her, especially a young man standing close.  She glanced down and suddenly realized just how little her clothes covered.  At least my bra has held out this long, she thought wryly.  With the immediate pursuit apparently left behind, she had a moment to take stock of her situation.  The trains didn't seem safe; beside, the time on a nearby clock read 1:02--the lighted display above showed that the final local train for the Odakyu line would be arriving in precisely two minutes.  Maybe I could take a taxi, she thought.  The ten-thousand-yen bills given to her by Takahashi sat wadded in her breast pocket.  The same problem remained, though: where could she go?

              These thoughts flashed through her mind as she pushed past the young man ogling her.  She had just reached the stairs leading up to the station when screams rang out behind.  With a sense of grim foreboding, Akane glanced back.  The transformed lupine man of earlier stood at the edge of the platform.  It staggered on a bloodied leg as it recovered from its leap out of the tunnel.  Blood seeped from numerous wounds across its body, and great clumps of fur were missing.  Torn and mangled flesh showed beneath.  One arm hung limply, and its left eye was swollen shut.  Nevertheless it took several heavy loping strides towards her, and its jaw yawned open in a toothy growl.

              Terrified commuters rushed the stairs, but Akane stopped and turned around as they flowed past.  She faced her pursuer.  The same dull anger that had been smoldering beneath her fear all night returned.  Her fists clenched at her side as she resolutely squared off against her enemy.

              "I've had enough of this!" she yelled at the creature.  "I'm not running from you anymore!"  It's easy to feel confident, she told herself with unexpected dryness, when your enemy's already half dead.  But her heart still hammered against her ribcage as she warily eyed her opponent: she had seen what these things were capable of when they attacked her house, and even injured it was probably way out of her league.  But as her rage grew and the creature approached, the thought of flight became more and more remote.

              The gangly lupine beast leapt at her, terrifyingly quick despite its wounds.  Akane danced aside, barely dodging as it lashed out with its good arm; its bad leg suddenly took some of the weight from its landing, and it stumbled slightly.  She charged close.  A flurry of punches slammed into its wounded side.  It twisted, hindered by its injuries, and she followed, keeping to its damaged arm.  Relentlessly she kept near and attacked, aiming for open wounds whenever possible, her battle cry challenging its outraged wolfish howls of pain.  I'm almost there! she thought, her elbow catching the monster in the neck; just a little longer!

              Sudden deadness flared across her left thigh, and she instinctively threw herself away.  Hot white pain lanced through her leg and she cried out, and fell, sliding to a stop a single meter from the drop-off into the subway tunnel.  She numbly stared at the jagged lines seeping blood.  The wound looked deep. Akane tried to move her leg but it refused.  A second later her entire leg throbbed, and she cried out as the pain resounded through her body.

              The creature grinned wolfishly as it approached, long crimson tongue lolling from its jaw.  Its good eye blazed with hunger.  Akane struggled to focus through the pain but barely managed to stand on her healthy leg.  Her body felt dead to her, yet angrily alive with pain: the fire in her side and in her leg, the pinprick lacerations of glass and gravel across her back, the massive bruising of her chest; and finally a mind-numbing pounding in her head in which every beat of her heart was loudly echoed.  This is it, she thought, and in a sudden moment of lucidity the entirety of her pain seemed to drain away: she was left in a state of thoughtless clarity unlike any she had ever known before; everything momentarily accentuated; and she watched with almost clinic detachment the play of muscles across her opponent's body as it tensed for the attack.

              The world sped up.  The creature leaped at her, howling.  Akane accepted the attack with her blocking arm.  Claws raked through the meat of her forearm.  Her wounded leg crumpled beneath her.  She fell.  Her other hand latched into its armpit.  Fingers dug vice-like into thick cords of muscle.  Her good leg kicked up as she tumbled back.  Her foot slammed into its abdomen.  Akane rolled back and heaved with all her might, snapping her opponent away.  Yowling with fury it flew past her and tumbled into the tunnel.  She twisted and watched it hit the ground hard.  Sudden light flashed across its crumpled form.  The 1:04 Odakyu train came rumbling into the station.  With speed born of desperation her opponent leapt for the platform.  Without hesitation Akane jumped, her good leg pistoning her straight up from her collapsed position.  She met her opponent in mid-air.  With a fierce kiai that seemed to reverberate throughout the tunnels and dwarfed even the sound of the approaching train, she caught the wolfish man in the jaw with a massive haymaker.  It released a terrified howl as it plummeted back into the tunnel.

              The train caught it before it hit ground.  With a sickening crunch and a shattering of glass the creature was carried away.

              The martial artist landed.  Her leg gave out and she fell backwards, landing on her rump.  The heady pleasure of her victory momentarily drowned out the pain.  I did it, she thought grimly.  I took one of these bastards out.  Then the exhilaration from that brief flash of martial transparency--in which the entirety of her training seemed compressed into a single technique, and her opponent reduced to a single possibility of attack--drained away; feeling returned and she cried out in agony, tears springing to her eyes.  She stared at her bleeding arm and leg and wondered if they were going to scar.  She tried to stand and collapsed; after a moment of gathering her strength she tried again and managed to shakily rise to her feet.  Behind her the train screeched to a stop.  The doors flew open and people poured free, screaming madly.

              Oh crap, Akane thought.  She limped over to the train and looked in.  Through open doors she could see down the full length of the train.  The front of the train crumpled inwards, and amidst broken glass and pooled blood the creature laid in a crumpled heap.  Even as she watched it stirred, one leg scrabbling for purchase and slipping in its own blackish blood.  The lupine face turned jerkily towards her.  Pathetic doglike whimpers of pain reached her ears, but the skin over its teeth curled back and it snapped at her.  It lay a dozen meters away, but with impossible determination it began to pull itself toward her with one arm.

              Oh, come _on_, Akane thought, I hit this thing with a friggin' _train_!  She turned and fled, and her limping pace carried her awkwardly up the stairs into the station proper.  Overly bright fluorescence stung her eyes as she staggered across the low ceilinged passage.  She moved between the numerous white-paneled columns, continuously glancing over her shoulder for pursuit.  Of course, she thought grimly, it's just as likely something's waiting ahead of me.  The pain threatened to overwhelm her at any moment, but resolute, she struggled forward.  She pushed past the ticket station, ignoring the harried looking station attendant.  Down a narrow corridor.  Felt fresh air and turned a corner. She saw stairs leading up.  She painfully hobbled up to the surface.

              The young woman nearly collapsed at the sudden overwhelming press of people and loud activity.  Despite the late hour the street was packed.  A small park across from the station exit held a rock band pounding out live music for passing pedestrians.  Flickering neon everywhere, constant buzz of walking conversation, street-side vendors hawking porno magazines or yakisoba, drunken babble, high-pitched delight, a young girl in a short skirt and tall boots sauntering by, the shattering of a bottle, a matronly woman standing serenely nearby in an elegant kimono: Akane had stumbled into east Shinjuku's infamous Kabuki district.

              Fighting down a wave of nausea, she forced herself to keep moving.  On the verge of collapse, Akane barely made it to the street.  Before her rapidly tunneling vision, a welcoming door yawned open.  She tumbled into it.  Something soft met her fall as blackness overwhelmed her.

              The sound of water trickling into a shallow bowl.

              Kausmi stared with unseeing eyes at the drops of water tumbling from the twisted material: the mesmerizing play of light, the purity of sound.  Arms that seemed disconnected from her body brought the freshly wrung cloth down to the man lying next to her.  She followed the motion of her own limbs, from washpan to her father's forehead.  Excess water beaded and ran along the wrinkles and creases a decade of worry and single fatherhood had wrought.  She nearly expected the water to evaporate on touch, to rise in small wisps from his burning and fevered flesh.

              That nice Ryouga boy had helped carry her unconscious father down from the roof.  While the other had been frantically cleaning before the arrival of the authorities, she had tended to her father.  Residual guilt twisted within her stomach: I should have helped them clean, Kasumi thought.  But some things were more important than a spotless house.  Family was more important.  Why else keep the house clean?

              So she had laid out a futon and Ryouga had placed the moaning figure of her father down, and now as others recovered from their efforts, she continued to wipe the sweat from her father's brow and trickle cool water down his throat.  Occasionally he moaned, and his head thrashed from side to side; but mostly he lay there gasping silently, eyes squeezed shut.  The poison coursing through his system seemed painful, but not fatal: his temperature had already lowered considerably over the last hour, and she preferred the over-heated flush of his features to the deathlike gray clamminess he had exhibited when Ryouga first found them.  Her father was fighting the venom, and winning.  Kasumi held his hand in silent encouragement.

              Not in encouragement, she finally admitted to herself, but for comfort.  Kasumi felt afraid; Kasumi felt guilty and ashamed.  She remembered the moment on the roof:

              _Kasumi stood and turned and fixed both the clustered eyes and the single human one with a strong, cross glare.

              "Leave him alone!" she demanded.

              It stepped forward and right up to her.  Kasumi could smell the stench of its breath, her father's blood still staining those human lips, its breath rattling with a strange clicking noise within a distended throat.  It stared at her, and Kasumi stared straight back.

              "This is my family," she said.  "Please.  They're my life."_

              The creature had embraced her and stared at her and after a long, tense moment, withdrawn, leaving Kasumi alone on the roof with her unconscious father.  She had shivered in the warm breeze.  After minutes of standing there enveloped in complete silence, she had sunk to her knees, slowly, and buried her face in her hands and wept.  She had never felt so happy to be alive.  A single thought had echoed through her mind: "It's not too late, it's still not too late."

              Even now the guilt consumed her, for in that first moment when she realized the spider-woman was not going to kill her, her thoughts had not been for her father, or for her sisters, or their guests--but for herself.  While cradled in the creature's grasp, when death seemed all but certain, all she had felt was a profound sadness and regret--for all the things she had never had the chance to do--for the fact that her _family_ was her life--that she didn't have one of her own.  Underlying the guilt was an unpleasant bitterness she had never known before.  She knew it was directed towards her family, even towards the unconscious man she loved lying at her side.  It was because of him, and her sisters, that she had placed aside her dreams and been left open to that terrible regret when she thought her life was over.

              As much as she hated that bitterness, she also knew that this newly awakened emotion would not simply leave once things quieted down.  Things could not go back to the way they had been before.

              With her head bowed, Kasumi griped her father's hand tightly and cried tears of guilt and happiness as she vowed to resume her own life.  "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

              Her words returned to her in a hoarse gasp.  "I'm so sorry," her father moaned, and she felt his hand squeeze hers back.

              "Father?"

              He smiled feebly.  "Kasumi," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  One hand fluttered at his side before falling back weakly to the futon.  "I'm . . . I'm so sorry."

              She hurriedly attended to him, wiping away her tears before dabbing at his brow.  "You shouldn't speak, Father," she said.  "You need your rest."

              For a long time he didn't speak, and she though t he had slipped back into unconsciousness; but then his eyes snapped open again and stared at the ceiling.

              "I failed," he said, and though his voice was no stronger, it held bitterness and self-loathing.

              "You didn't," Kasumi said softly.  "You were very heroic."

              His eyes turned to those of his eldest daughter.  She found she couldn't match his gaze and looked away.

              "I understand," he sighed, and closed his eyes.  His breathing deepened.  But as he slipped back into sleep, she heard him mutter, though it was so low that couldn't be sure of having heard him properly, "Things won't be the way they were before."

              Akane awoke with a start.  She forced back vertigo and opened her eyes and stared up at the surprised face of a sandy-haired foreigner looking down at her.

              "Having a good night, eh?" the man asked in fluent Japanese.

              Akane gaped at him before realizing she was lying in the back seat of taxi.  She struggled into a sitting position, and the door closed automatically behind her.  Among all the weirdness and terror of the night, a foreign cab driver in Tokyo seemed pretty tame.  His car, however, compared to those of the normally immaculate Japanese drivers, was a disaster.  She gingerly picked her foot out of a pile of cheese- and sauce-covered french fries congealing on the floor.

              "Drink too much?" the man asked as she looked around in confusion.  She did a double take as something caught her eye: two men approaching the car from behind, scanning the area attentively.  A sudden wind tugged at their long coats, and she saw a glint of metal beneath.

              "Go!" she shrieked, ducking low in the seat.  "Drive!"

              Unfazed by her voice, the man shrugged.  "Hey, I'm not a tour service here.  You got anywhere in mind?"

              "Home!" she cried.  "Nerima!"

              "No need to get snarky, little lady," the man said, turning away.  "Nerima it is."  The taxi jumped forward.  Akane sat up and looked back and saw the two men directly behind the car.  Breastplates gleamed dully on their chests, and large blades half-concealed by their clothes reflected the car's brake lights in lurid reds.  Pulling onto the street, the men were quickly left behind.  Akane breathed a sigh of relief once they were out of sight.

              "The name's Dave," the driver said conversationally, arm thrown wide across the front seat.  He turned to talk to her, one eye on the traffic, the other eying her speculatively.  "You're looking kinda rough there.  You okay?"

              "No," Akane said.  "You have any bandages?"

              "First aid kit under the left seat," Dave answered blithely.  "Try to keep the blood off the leather, eh?"

              She pulled out the small white box with the green cross on it.  A lifetime of martial arts--and two years of having an injury-prone fiance--had given her not insignificant skills at treating wounds.  But quickly examining her own injuries, she knew she couldn't manage much more than temporary and superficial treatment.  I need a hospital, she thought.  She wasn't like Ranma, who seemed to bounce back from critical injury within minutes.  True, she was past the days when a minor sprain might force her to skip a tournament--at least she liked to think she was--but some of her cuts would require stitching.  Especially the cuts across her forearm; she had a feeling she'd be bearing the mark of the wound for the rest of her days.

              Hopefully, she thought morosely, those days aren't numbered in the single digits.

              The backseat quickly became a mess of gauze, tape, and cotton compresses as she tended to herself.  Shinjuku crept by, cityscape nightlights mirroring across the windowpane.  Dave the taxi driver took a right, and the car slowed in traffic as they passed over a bridge.  To her right loomed the massive Lumine One and Keio Department Stores that sat atop Shinjuku station; to her left she saw Time Square, its large cube shape a sparkling blackness against the night sky beyond.  Below the bridge the JR train tracks twisted and merged and disappeared into the night.  Red and white lights flashed from atop emergency vehicles gathered near one of the train lines: the Yamanote line, she realized, and looked away.

              "Quite the night, eh?" continued the cab driver, as she pulled the bandage tight around her forearm.  "You wouldn't believe the stuff that's been coming over the radio."

              "I bet you I would," Akane muttered under her breath,

              "Everything from escaped animal attacks to Sailor Senshi sightings.  Can you believe it?  And the crap going down in Shibuya!  I mean, hell, that place is _always_ kind of weird on weekend nights, but, like--wow!"

              Akane only half listened as the man prattled on.  She did what she could for her injuries, and then sank back into the comfort of the seat.  She watched the many-lighted urban splendor of Shinjuku west pass by, the cramped commercial buildings and tiny restaurants and retail outlets giving way to the towering structures beyond.  The taxi turned right into the skyscraper district.  On either side, seventy-story five-star hotels soared high into the darkness above.  Amidst them all, and towering over most, squatted the imposing Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building, its massive bulk resembling the evil headquarters of some totalitarian despot.  She yawned and fought a losing battle against sleep.

              I shouldn't be going to Nerima, she thought sleepily.  I have to stay away.  But as exhaustion overtook her she couldn't think of a single reason why not to go home.  Her family and friends were there.  So was Ranma--no, wait, he was in Tokyo looking for her.  But he'd find her.  He always did.  She could almost picture him, as if in a dream, dashing across the Tokyo skyline.  She momentarily forgot her earlier fears for his well-being and yearned for him terribly.

              The taxi driver's voice became a monotonous background buzz lulling her to sleep.  The car stopped at a red light near the foot of some hotel called the Keio Plaza, and the slight jerk caused her to slump over.  She drifted into momentary sleep, as she felt the car pull forward--

              "Holy crap!" shrieked Dave, startling her awake.

              Akane instinctively hugged the seat, suddenly fully conscious.  There was a terrible screech of metal against metal, and sudden cool night air wafted in.  She glanced up and saw that the top of the car being cleanly cleaved off.  The taxi driver gave a scream of outrage and gunned the engine.  The car leaped forward several meters--and released a terrible groaning and clunking noise.  Sitting up, she saw men on either side recovering from swinging their massive swords, as the car spun out of control.  The vehicle gave a final wheeze and died.

              Great, Akane thought, these guys again.

              Two men and a woman approached the car, flanking it as they approached.  They held their weapons at the ready, all pretense of subtlety gone: the blades blazed with an intense blue light, scattering the street's quiet shadows.  By the illumination of their weapons Akane could see quite clearly: the damage a single swing had wreaked on the car's engine block; the stony determination set in their eyes.

              Akane stood in the back seat, shattered glass crunching beneath her feet.  "Why don't you leave me alone!" she yelled at them.

              The taxi driver looked up from his huddle by the steering column and asked, "You _know_ these guys?"

              Akane nodded mutely.

              "Look what they did to my taxi!"

              "Um, yeah.  Sorry about that."

              He stared at her.  "What say you just get out of my car," he said in a flat voice, "and we'll call it even?"

              Akane hopped out of the car onto the right side, facing the single swordsman.  She fell into a defensive stance, unsure of how to handle her three opponents.  They looked different from the others she had faced so far: more determined and sure in their movements, approaching with nearly feline grace.  Breastplates and greaves far more ornate she had seen before glimmered unnaturally with each step.  The confidence she felt in facing the other human fighters earlier in the night was now lacking--she saw in these three a martial skill to match her own.

              It's not going to end like this, she growled to herself, standing with her back to the car.  One hand tightened its grip on the doorframe as her anger rose once again.  The man nearest her held back, just beyond striking range and preventing her from easily running off.  She was peripherally aware of the other two circling the vehicle, one on the opposing left side, the other rounding the back.  

              "Why are you doing this?" she called out.

              Grim silence was their only response.

              A distraction came from an unexpected source: Dave, the beleaguered cabbie driver.  With a string of curses in a language Akane couldn't understand, he kicked his door open.  It cracked back, catching the other man across the shins.  The swordsman staggered, briefly; more important was the brief flicker of distraction in the first man's eyes.  With a savage cry and brute strength Akane tore the door from its frame and hurled it at the woman approaching from behind.  With a resounding clang it knocked her off her feet.  The nearest man lunged forward.  Akane rolled away along the car.  The blade narrowly missed, slicing through the taxi and straight into the pavement.  She jerked to a stop; her hands crumpled the metal beneath her grip.  She twisted back.  The rear door came with her.  The man reversed his grip.  He slashed up diagonally.  His sword cleaved unhindered through the side of the car.  Straight for her torso.  Faster than she was.

              Akane's blood ran cold.

              The martial artist leaned back at the waist; one shoulder dipped down.  It was a technique she had observed Ranma employ dozens of times against Kuno.  Her instinctive study was well rewarded as the blade whistled by.  Its passing was a breeze across her chest and face.  The moment seemed frozen, her attention seized by a tuft of hair, cleanly sliced from her forward bangs, puffing outwards in an expanding cloud.  The image was burned into her mind:  the wrecked car at the edge of her vision, the hazy night sky beyond, dual glinting towers of the skyscraper reaching skyward, shimmering azure afterimage of the weapon's radiance, her opponent's exposed right side as his attack failed--

              Those hairs, suspended before her eyes.

              Akane burned hot as she completed her swing.  The slab of metal in her hands shuddered with the strength of her blow, slamming the man to the ground.  "Leave me alone!" she shrieked, bashing the downed man again and again with the taxi door.  "I'm just an ordinary school girl!"  A dozen crunching blows later she noticed the crumpled metal in her grasp, and sheepishly tossed the impromptu weapon aside.  Her fury abated enough for her to remember the other opponents.  Something had prevented them from attacking.  With a sudden sense of dread she turned her attention back to the taxi.

              The man and woman were engaged in heated combat with something fleshy and bloated and only vaguely human-shaped, which Akane avoided looking at too closely.  They seemed to be holding their own--but only barely.  The woman performed a lightning quick block and riposte against the creature, tearing a bloody gash open; and in the spare moment she gained, she turned to Akane and yelled, "Run, fool!"

              Akane turned and ran as fast as she could.  It seemed she had been running all night.  The image of her near beheading remained fresh in her mind.  Within moments of taking her first steps something lunged at her from the darkness.  She ducked away without breaking stride knowing she had narrowly avoided the unseen strike.  The newcomer chased after her.  The pursuit was too close, a scant meter or two behind as she ran down the quiet, darkened street.  Her wounded leg began to burn; the pain quickly became nearly overwhelming.  Buildings loomed on either side.  The sound of her steps was echoed by those following; she could hear the steady intake of its breathing.  Looking forward she saw dark silhouettes against the curve of the road ahead.  Her flight had been headed off.  Akane made a sharp turn to the right.  She skidded against asphalt and nearly lost her footing.  She caught a glimpse of her pursuer--burnt flesh, protruding bones, too many eyes--and desperately threw herself out of its path.  One blackened fist slammed down where she had been, and with a bright flash an electric concussion shattered the road.  The smell of ozone assaulted her nose as, teary-eyed and half-blind, Akane scrambled away.  The road unexpectedly fell sharply into unknown space below.  Without hesitation or thought the martial artist tossed herself over the railing.

              She plummeted several heart-pounding meters before hitting ground.  She managed to catch herself with her good leg and absorb the impact, dropping into a deep crouch without falling over.  She blinked through her spotty vision and looked around, and momentarily thought herself dropped into some urban arena.  Akane quickly recognized the embracing arms of the sunken atrium of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building.  At night a scattering of lights cast soft pools of illumination across the area, but most of it remained cloaked in darkness.  Open air and circular, the sunken plaza was considered by some the most beautiful--and least seen--aspect of the gargantuan edifice.  

              Momentarily free of pursuit, Akane limped towards the only light she could see: large glass doors leading into the main towers.  She saw movement within: cleaning staff, maybe, or even late-night security.  Somebody who could hide her, or provide a phone, and maybe even help.  A voice deep inside told her she was delaying the inevitable and grasping at straws, but she refused to acknowledge defeat at this point.  She had to reach the door before either the creatures or swordsmen from above followed her down.  Her dragging steps were the only sound in the open space.  A chill wind blew, carrying with it dust and debris; she shivered as it caressed her clammy, nearly naked body.

              A figure detached from the shadows opposite the plaza.  Though she was less than surprised, despair and fear swelled nevertheless swelled anew within Akane.  Her final avenue of escape was being closed off.

              "It's good to finally meet you," a woman's voice rang out, her tone amused and mocking.

              Akane came to a stop.  Her shoulders slumped, a final exhaustion overtaking her.  She drooped to the smooth ground.  The shadowy figure approached, a curvaceous silhouette against the bright light of the doors beyond.  The sharp click of the woman's heels echoed across the plaza as she approached.

              "How?" Akane tried to cry out, but her throat went dry and her voice croaked and died.  She swallowed and tried again.  "How?" she called out, louder.  "I've been running all night!  _I_ don't even know where I'm going, but you keep finding me!  Everyone gets there before I do!"

              The woman's chuckle rang clear across the plaza.  "You shine like a pillar of fire blazing high upon the horizon, girl!  To those of us attuned to your presence, you are a beacon casting its radiance across the entirety of Tokyo.  We could no more ignore than we could the sun!  Before the Key made itself known to us tonight, we could feel the beating of its unrealized potential; now it sings to us all, and I doubt there's a supernatural creature in this city unaware of your existence.  Even those unable to see you can feel you, your very movement stirs the air about you."

              That's just great, Akane thought.  I've been running around with a giant arrow on my head screaming, 'I'm over here!' all night.

              The hunger was palpable in the woman's voice, as was the hatred.  "You have no idea of the power that you carry within you, girl.  It draws us to you."

              "Yeah," Akane muttered, "like flies to shit."  

              "Terrible, isn't it?" the woman continued.  "To die, without ever knowing the reason, for a power you can not comprehend."  A shadow dropped from the sky, and then another; they fell into rank behind the woman as she continued to approach.

"Then take it!" Akane yelled back.  "Whatever it is, I don't want it!"

              "Nor do I," she said, dark amusement tainting her voice.  "I intend to destroy it."

              "Oh."

              Two more figures detached from the shadows and joined the woman's misshapen retinue.  Akane recognized the shape of one of them: bent backwards, bloated stomach, drooping head.  But something strange happened: as the woman grew closer and the number of her followers grew larger, Akane felt her own despair dwindle, her exhaustion rapidly ebbing as she crouched there in waiting.  Fear still gripped her stomach and her heart pounded loudly in her chest, but with an irritating buzzing beginning deep within her head she began to feel a cold detachment from what was happening.

              The woman paused a dozen meters away.  Akane could see her now in one of the pools of lights.  She was tall and slender and coldly beautiful, though that beauty was marred by the unconcealed cruelty that shone in her eyes.  Dressed like a successful corporate CEO--well-tailored clothes accentuating subdued sexuality, open-toed heels tightening the sleek line of slim calves--she contrasted sharply with her monstrous entourage.

              "You've done well, girl.  You escaped my young Daughter here," she said, one hand coming to rest softly on the quivering belly of the creature next to her.  "And you nearly killed my eldest Son.  But now it would seem that I claim the prize myself."

              "I'm nobody's prize," Akane growled.  Strength flowed into her wounded leg as the pain faded; her breathing calmed as she caught her breath.  A final effort, she told herself.  I don't know how, but this isn't the end, not yet.  Not at this arrogant bitch's hand.

              "Strange that Akuji let you go," the woman mused.  "What does he see in you, beyond our Father's demands?"  The woman eyed Akane speculatively.  One of her children leaned in close--Akane recognized the creature as the blackened man that had chased her into the plaza--and said in a low voice, "Mother Ryukiko, the foot-solders of the Order draw close.  Perhaps we should--"

              "The Order," a familiar voice called out, "is already here."

              Yamashita strode from the shadows behind Akane.  At his side walked Takeshi, and whatever animosity lay between the two men seemed buried for the moment.  Both their weapons shone brilliantly.

              Ryukiko's face twisted in a furious scowl.  "You have interfered too often tonight!" she said, and spat to the side.  "Do you think to stand against the strength of my entire clan?"

              "Just the two of us?" Yamashita answered, glancing aside at his companion, and smiling.  "No."

              Azure flares erupted in a staggered semi-circle along the rim of the sunken plaza.  Figures crouched overhead took aim with hefty crossbows cradled in their grasp; swordsmen poured into the plaza from the opposite end of the sunken atrium.  Within moments a small army had assembled behind her.  Akane found herself crouched in the center of what had suddenly become a battlefield.

              "But the thirty of us?" Takeshi added, and grinned.  "Yeah, I do."

              Ryouga Hibiki awoke with a start.

              He was lying on the floor of the Tendo's living room.  He couldn't remember drifting off, but figured it had to have been soon after Mousse dragged him back from chasing after Akane.  The martial artist was exhausted.  He couldn't remember having ever felt so tired before.  With a loud groan he managed to sit up, feeling a dozen sharp pains flare up across his body.  Finally he opened his eyes, and once the dancing spots faded away, looked around.

              "Glad to see you're still with us, sugar," said Ukyou in a low voice, sitting propped up against the wall a few meters away.  Her oversized spatula lay across her knees, and her hands never strayed far from its shaft.  "You had us worried there for a bit."

              "'Tis about time, varlet!" added Kuno, though he kept his voice soft as well.  He had switched back into his normal clothes, though he too kept a weapon cradled in his lap-- the Saotome family katana.  He absently polished it as he spoke.  "To think you slept as we warriors debased ourselves to the levels of cleaning servants!"

              "You can feel free to ignore the idiot," Ukyou whispered, glaring at the kendoist.  "He's just pulling your leg, anyway.  He's the one who brought you that blanket."  Ryouga glanced down and saw a blanket that had fallen aside as he sat up; and indeed, looking back at the taller man, he saw a glint of humor in his eyes that he wasn't accustomed to seeing.

              "Why are we whispering?" asked Ryouga.

              His two companions nodded towards the far corner, and he saw Shampoo curled up there, asleep.  Even in human form there was something feline in the way she slept.  The Chinese girl seemed swathed in bandages, and he remembered her injuries from the previous day.  She probably needs the sleep more that I do, he thought.  He shifted to get more comfortable and gasped at a sudden pain that lanced straight through him, and added, maybe not.  Trying to keep as still as possible and in a low voice, he asked Ukyou, "Where are the others?"

              "Cologne is with Mousse and Nabiki in the dojo," she answered.  "She's interrogating that Ayumi girl."

              "The eldest daughter tends to her father," Kuno added.  He paused to eye a smudge on the Saotome blade and continued to polish.  He didn't look up as he added, "Ranma has yet to return with Akane."  Almost as an afterthought, he added, "that vile fiend."

              "Akane's still out there?"

              "Yes, she is," Ukyou said, "and don't you get no stupid ideas about chasing after her.  You're in no shape to be running around."

              "And Ranma is?" Ryouga answered, his voice growing loud and angry.  He recognized both the bitterness and concern in his voice, and even the jealousy, but didn't care.  "He needs--"  He cut off  as he saw his two friends exchange clouded looks.  "What?"

              "You weren't there, sugar," said Ukyou.  "You didn't see what he did to those two monsters."

              "It was a slaughter," said Kuno softly, gazing even more intently into the mirrored surface of the blade.  "A bloody, violent massacre.  He tore the fiends apart with his bare hands--with his bare _hands_--with ease."

              "Then he blew away half the upstairs with some kind of ki-blast," Ukyou added.

              And he was also the one who chased off the leader of these things, Ryouga thought, even after it threw the rest of us around like rag dolls.  He dimly remembered the wash of energy that had nearly knocked him out--deathly cold, there had been a voice within, offering peace and rest and suggesting sleep, but promising pain if he resisted.  Then that cold, glassy hand against his brow; and darkness.

              Ryouga saw the fear in his friends' eyes--fear of one's fiance, fear of one's rival.  But then, they hadn't been there when he wrestled with a god a kilometer above the earth.  They didn't see the look in his eyes, Ryouga thought, when Saffron held Akane's life in his hands.  He nodded once to show he understood.  He didn't envy the enemies that stood between Ranma and Akane.  He took in the haggard, exhausted faces of his friends, and the hunted look in their eyes, and wondered if he shared the same expression.  

              We've followed you this far, Ranma, he though.  But how much farther will you bring us?  As much as it galled him, Ryouga could not deny the brief tremor of fear that ran through him.

              "Tonight we wipe another of Belial's foul brood from the face of the Earth!" exclaimed Yamashita, and he chopped his raised hand down.

              A volley of crossbow bolts sang through the air as the soldiers of the Order charged forward, their battle cry echoing loudly.  Ryukiko's children roared in pain and fury and charged into the fray.  Only Ryukiko remained behind, trembling with anger but seemingly undaunted by the interruption.  From behind, Yamashita and Takeshi strode forward purposefully, eyes set on Akane.

              Akane still crouched, frozen, staring at the crossbow bolt imbedded in the ground a few centimeters from her foot.  Only an instinctive tilting of her head had kept it from tearing her throat open.  These newcomers were not here to save her.  They wanted to kill her for themselves.  Takeshi must have joined Yamashita's side--whatever side _that_ was.  There was no rescue here, only more danger.  The martial artist began to tremble as she stood, her vision swimming red with an outrage that did not entirely feel like her own.

              Battle raged about her, inhuman screeches mingled with human cries.  Another flurry of projectiles flashed from above.  Ryukiko dashed for cover, one of her Children providing protection for her and absorbing a dozen bolts in its elephantine hide.  Akane rushed forward.

              She heard the approaching men cry out behind her, and ignored them.  She barreled into the fray, charging straight for the door she had seen earlier.  Swords flashed and cut on either side; claws tore the air and lightning burned across her vision and teeth gnashed.  Akane ran and jumped and wove between random attacks and errant strikes.  For every one of Ryukiko's brood she spotted, a half-dozen warriors engaged it; and through it all crossbow fire rained into the plaza.  As she twisted past a young woman and evaded her sword--only to see the woman bashed away by something's sinuous tail--she had an unexpected flashback: ducking and dodging the morning mass of perverted schoolboys who charged her every day in hopes of a date.  A snigger escaped her lips, then choking giggles that she couldn't repress as she shoulder checked a man from behind and jumped over his body.  She ran, laughing, through the fighting mob, her cheeks streaked with tears.

              An explosion rocked the rim above and lightning danced, and one of the crossbowmen fell screaming to the ground, stone and debris showering around him.  He landed with a loud crunch and didn't move.  Akane danced past the body and escaped the outer edge of the fray.  Her feet pounded the ground as she hurtled towards escape.  The door shone bright before her.  She didn't slow down.

              Glass smashed and metal snapped as, arms crossed before her face, she crashed through the door.  She landed running and found herself in the expansive reception area of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building.  Behind her the battle raged on, though she spotted figures detaching themselves from the fighting in pursuit.  She hoped that she could leave them all behind her.  On the other side of the reception, large windows looked out into Shinjuku, and doors led back into the city.  If I escape them here, she desperately hoped, I'll shake them once and for all.  If I keep moving, maybe I'll get harder to track.  Maybe once the sun comes up they'll retreat.  Maybe--

              The opposite wall exploded inward in a rushing barrage of glass.  Akane screamed and ducked, covering her head with her arms.  Fragments flayed her in a sharp-edged rain, tearing at her skin and tattered clothes.  She opened her eyes and saw the gargantuan dog-like beast last seen at the Shinjuku Station train yards.  It crouched among the crumbling wall and released an ear-deafening roar that set the opposing windows to trembling.  Chunks of flesh had been torn from its hide and blood seeped from numerous deep wounds, but it seemed only slightly hindered by the damage.

              Great, Akane thought darkly, looks like everybody's showing up.

              She ran left.  With a single leap the giant beast crossed the distance and landed in front of her.  Akane screeched to a stop and threw herself to one side.  She scrambled towards the first escape she saw.  Brightly lit and sitting open, Akane didn't realize that she had thrown herself into an elevator until she rebounded hard off the wall, cracking the mirror there.

              "Please don't hurt me," a man moaned.  Akane stared blankly at the man cowering in the corner beneath the elevator controls.  He glanced up at her and started to shake.  "I'm just a cleaner, I don't got nothin' to do with this, I just wanna--"

              Akane ignored him.  The ground shuddered as the huge monster approached.  She jabbed one of the buttons; there only seemed to be a few of them.  Nothing happened.  She stabbed the button again and again, but the doors didn't close.

              The creature's monstrous face filled the elevator door.  It roared, and the force of its cry at such close range sent her stumbling back into the wall.  The scent of its breath brought bile to her throat, and phlegm and wetness from its throat spattered her body.  It pulled back, and a moment later reached in with a massive paw.  With a loud shriek Akane jumped to the ceiling and clung there desperately.  The hand groped blindly.  Her purchase began to creak beneath her weight.  The words 'thick thighs' pronounced by a suspiciously obnoxious voice floated through her mind.

              The ceiling of the elevator gave way.  Akane screamed and dropped, bouncing off the thing's outstretched hand and slamming into the mirror with her forehead.  Dazed, she had a momentary glimpse of herself there, fragmented and bloodied.  Rough-skinned fingers curled around her waist and legs, shocking her from her stupor.  Her hands scrabbled at the seams in the cracked mirror as the beast yanked her away; her fingers curled around the sharp edges of a shard the length of her arm and tore it free.  Akane felt the edge cut into her fingers as she lifted the triangular piece of mirror overhead.  The fist already held her high in the air, and she braced one edge of her weapon against her palm.  She plunged the glass down with all her strength into the hand holding her.  Ichors sprayed up in a crimson sheet, drenching her chest and neck.

              The creature's bestial howl was echoed by Akane's cry of pain as the edge of the mirror sliced through the meat of her hand and dug deep into her palm.  The giant hand spasmed open and she flew from its grasp; she hit the concrete corner of the wall outside the elevator with the small of her back and fell to the floor face down.  The mirror shattered beneath her.  Half delirious from pain and shock, she crawled back into the shaft.  To her surprise the door slid shut behind her, releasing a pleasant 'ding' as it quickly began to rise.

              The man crouched in the corner gave a little shrug and pointed at the key connected to his belt by a long string.  "After hours," he said, "you have to use the maintenance key before you press the button."

              Akane stared blankly at the man.  She rolled over and dragged herself to the wall.  She slumped against the edge of the elevator and turned her attention to the numbers above the door.  She watched them change.  They were already in the mid-teens.

              Right, Akane thought.  That's it.  I'm done.

              Her injuries were too extensive.  A life of martial arts had failed to prepare her for what she had been put through tonight.  Adrenaline and second winds and strange bursts of vitality are great and all, she thought, but I've hit a wall here.  She giggled when she realized that she'd hit a number of walls this night--usually quite painfully and not of her own volition.  Her voice sounded strained to her ears.  With a groan she lifted herself into a proper sitting position amidst the blood and broken glass and debris from the elevator's ceiling.  Akane absently noticed how she left sticky red handprints on everything she touched.  She wondered if she was slipping into shock.  The rhythmic thrumming of the elevator carried them past the twenty-fifth floor.

              "This elevator only goes to the Observation Deck on the forty-fifth," the cleaning man offered.  "Maybe we'll be safe up there?"

              I don't think so, Akane thought.  There were stairs and another elevator and for all she knew, one of the things chasing after her might just teleport to the top of the building or something.  She didn't know why these things were chasing her, and she no longer cared.  Splinters of glass in her chest, the deep gash across her palm, the wounds to her forearm and thigh, massive bruising across her chest and back, her face battered and bloodied: as Akane numbly took stock of her injuries, she felt a curious mixture of pride and despair.

              "I'm sorry, Ranma," she softly said to herself.  She imagined him dashing madly through the streets of Tokyo, searching for her.  Somehow she could picture him with startling clarity--bloodied and exhausted, but unrelenting in his pursuit.  "I don't think I can wait any longer for you to rescue me."

              With another pleasant 'ding' and a soft female voice announcing their arrival at the Observation Floor, the elevator came to a stop.  The doors quietly slid open.

              The cleaning man quickly left the elevator.  Soon after she heard the heavy slam of a stairwell door.  Akane reluctantly hauled herself onto her feet, whimpering from the effort.  She stood there for a moment, wavering, before taking hesitant steps onto the forty-fifth floor.

              The Observation Deck was dark and silent.  Large windows on all sides looked out onto the city.  Pale shafts of moonlight slanted across the floor.  The air felt heavy and stuffy without the background hum of an air conditioner.  The martial artist slowly staggered into the room.  Each step with her left foot felt slippery.  Her leg was slick with blood soaking through her bandage, and she held her wounded hand clenched tight and nestled beneath her other arm.  Akane stood haggard in the center of the room with the luminous sprawl of Tokyo spreading out in all directions about her.  Behind her the elevator dinged and closed and began its descent.  Here they come, she thought.

              She had never felt lonelier than she did at that moment.  With a sigh--not so much of despair as of desolation--Akane sank to the ground.  She leaned back against an informational display and took a deep breath.  The hard marble of the stand felt cold against her wet and injured back.

              The glistening urban splendor of Tokyo at night seen from above resounded deeply in her heart as she lay there, bleeding and devoid of hope.  Tears sprang to her eyes for this final appreciation of where she was; of who she was; and though she felt that this must be the end, she felt hollowed and free of fear.  Even her final sadness that she would never get to see Ranma again faded away as the room slowly grew darker.  Emotions and physical sensation seemed to drain away, leaving her aware of only the growing buzzing within her head.  She felt a profound insight hovering at the edge of her perception, ephemeral and elusive.  In reaching out the knowledge faded, and the emergent murmurs of her mind nearly overwhelmed her.  She was left with a final sense of pride.  I made it pretty far, she thought.  I bet even Shampoo couldn't have done this well.  Akane sighed and smiled and closed her eyes.  Akane waited.

              She felt his presence before she either saw him or heard his approach.  She opened her eyes and found her view of the city blocked by the tall silhouette stepping from the darkness.  His steps made no sound, and the shadows roiled and twisted about him.  From within that inky depth, two eyes flared a piercing crimson.  She recognized the voice immediately.

              "It seems I have caught up with you at last," said Akuji.

              Nabiki sat back, enjoying a much-deserved rest, as the old Amazon matriarch questioned their captive.  She could have left, of course, and enjoyed well-needed sleep back in her room--and in fact the thought of her bed, and of warm sheets and her plump pillow nearly made her ache with the desire to sleep; but she wouldn't have missed Ayumi Utada's answers for anything.

              "Now," Cologne began, in a far softer and kindly tone than Nabiki might have expected, "perhaps you can help us, yes?"  Mousse stood a little behind and to the right of Cologne, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his robe.  His shadow fell across the young girl, and his gaze never wandered far from her face.  The girl seemed terrified, and the middle Tendo felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for her.

              Let's no be getting soft here, she told herself.  She _did_ try to kill me, and she took a chunk out of Daddy's shoulder.

              Ayumi stared blankly at Cologne, her features pale, her eyes wide.  She shook her head slightly, as if she didn't understand.

              "I understand you might be frightened," Cologne said, "but we need answers only you can give."  She hopped down off of her stick, which brought her eye-to-eye with the bound girl.  "Mousse here mentioned something about a name.  You spoke briefly before, did you not?"

              The girl's eyes flickered up to Mousse, and then squeezed shut.  She whimpered.

              Cologne sighed.  She raised her staff and gently touched the tip to Ayumi's shoulder.  "If you don't answer me, girl, I will truly give you reason to be frightened."  The Amazon's voice remained soft.  A shiver ran down Nabiki's spine.  "I can shatter your shoulder, girl.  With a single touch."

The girl moaned and tried to flinch away but the heavy ropes kept her immobile.  "Please," she whimpered.  "Please don't hurt me, please, I didn't mean to, I didn't, oh please, he'll _hear_, he'll _know_, I can't. . . ."

              "Who will know?" Cologne asked sharply.

              "You don't _understand_!"

              "My patience wears thin, girl," the Amazon said.  "You and your kin have attacked mine without cause."

              "And you nearly killed Shampoo!" added Mousse.

              Cologne fixed the boy with a withering glare before turning back to the girl.  "Don't tempt me, young one.  I have ample justification to kill you as it is.  Now: who is it you fear so?"  

              Ayumi opened her eyes.  They were red and teary.  She glanced up at Mousse, once, and then flinched away from what she saw there, turning her gaze to the matriarch.  "Akuji," she whispered.  "Father."

              "The obsidian man is your father?" asked Cologne.

              "He is now," their captive answered, and her words were bitter.  "He is my Father, as another is before him; and Belial is our great Father above all."  The young star's beautiful face twisted into an expression of mixed revulsion and reverence.  "We are the Children of Belial."

              "The Children of . . . ."  Cologne turned away, her features thoughtful.

              "Have you heard of them before?" Nabiki asked.

              "Never," the older woman answered.  "Though perhaps we know them by another name."  She returned her attention to her captive.  "What is it you want, then, Child of Belial?"

              "My name is Ayumi!" the girl said, sounding surprisingly petulant.  "I'm not a-- right now, I'm normal, I'm Ayumi, please. . . ," and her voice dropped to a near whisper, "call me Ayumi."

              Cologne eyed her speculatively before lowering her staff.  "Ayumi," she said, softening her tone once again, "what is it that that creature did to you?"

              The girl blinked at the unexpected tenderness.  Her gaze shifted between the three people before her--she seemed afraid of Mousse, but the eyes that met Nabiki's were those of a frightened child--and then she started to speak in a sniffling, halting voice.

              "He came to me, not long ago," she said.  "When I was weak, when . . . when something bad happened to me.  It's not important what," she quickly added, "but I was . . . hurt.  And angry.  And powerless--that was the worst, feeling so . . . weak, and useless, and, and pathetic!"  Her face became coldly beautiful in its sudden rage.  "I hated it, I hated always feeling so weak!

              "That's how Akuji found me," she said, and her voice became quiet once more.  "He offered me strength where I was weak, power when I had none.  He offered and I accepted-- I don't know if anyone could refuse-- he turned me and welcomed me into his clan."  She seemed ashamed of her own admission, dropping her gaze and hiding her eyes behind the inky veil of her hair.

              Cologne forced the girl to raise her head with her staff.  "He 'turned' you?" she asked.  Her voice remained stern but gentle.

              "There is a . . . ritual," she said.  She paled, and her lower lip trembled as she spoke.  "Please, don't make me . . . it's too horrible.  Even the others won't speak of it; no Child does, I think.  Those who survive . . . become one of the Children.  The ritual binds us together.  At the climax of the ceremony, the essence of Belial flows into us: his flesh becomes our flesh, his soul our own, his will, ours."

              "Is it this . . . Belial's strength you feel, when you become those beasts?" Cologne asked.

              "You can't imagine the power," Ayumi answered softly.  "The strength.  Everything becomes so simple.  All the doubts, the worries are put to rest.  Nothing remains but the purity of the Father's will.  You can always feel it, watching over you, out of sight but it's there . . . always _there_, even now!"  Nabiki instinctively glanced over her shoulder, and shivered, half expecting to see some slavering beast lurking behind her.  "It's terrible and wonderful," the girl continued.  "The rage and hunger carries me forward when Belial's taint is upon me."  She looked away again, and Nabiki was glad to escape the hungry gaze that had been turned on her.  "But it doesn't last.  It never does, and when I return to myself I always feel even worse."

              "Why not remain a monster, then?"

              "I can't," the girl answered.  "I can only stay transformed for so long . . . a few hours at most, and even then I'm left exhausted.  I'm still young, I only fully entered Father's clan a few days ago, when one of his sons were killed."  She glanced at her bonds.  "I couldn't change right now even if I wanted to.  But Father tells me that I'll grow stronger.  He promised me that I would be the strongest of his clan someday.  One day I'll be able to remained transformed for days on end!"  She seemed both excited and horrified at the prospect.

              Mousse gave a sharp laugh.  "Congratulations, bitch," he said.  "You're now the strongest of your clan."  He spat at her feet.  "All the rest are dead."

              Cologne barked something at him in Chinese.  The boy, after a long sullen glare at the withered old woman, silently stepped away.  When she turned back to Ayumi, the girl seemed stunned at the revelation.

              "My Brothers and Sisters are dead?"  Nabiki couldn't tell whether the girl was thrilled or dismayed.

              "And your 'father', fled," added Cologne.

              Ayumi stared back at the older woman for a long moment before slowly shaking her head.  "No," she said flatly.  "Impossible.  He may have left, but fled?  I don't believe that."

              "Are you that certain of his power?"

              "You don't understand," Ayumi said.  "You can almost take the length of time one of us remains transformed as . . .  I don't know, as a measuring strength of our power.  How quickly we bounce back as well.  Eldest Brother—he was the strongest of us by far.  He could remain beneath Belial's taint for a full day with ease, and within an hour or two, transform again.

              "But Father?  Ever since I've been accepted into the Family-- for the full week that I have been with the clan, and of Belial's flesh-- I have yet to see Akuji revert to his true form. . . ."

              "At last," he intoned in his deep, mellifluous tones.

              Akane tilted her head towards the obsidian man.  She watched his approach.  He seemed beautiful to her, somehow, in a dark, uncomfortable way.  Tokyo lights played across his smooth, creaseless skin.  The suggestion of powerful muscles rolled beneath the glassy surface. 

              "You led us on quite the chase tonight," Akuji continued, though Akane was barely conscious of his voice.  Somehow she knew the man was no longer speaking to her.  "But I knew you would persevere.  Your host is strong and capable.  You helped her survive, didn't you?  I can feel you rising through the layers of her being, protecting her even as you seek to claim her at last."

              Something feather-soft and wispy brushed across her cheeks and forehead.  Her eyes flickered open--she hadn't even realized that they had closed--and saw the tendrils of murky blackness reaching from the obsidian man.  Akuji's touch was cool and refreshing across a brow suddenly feverish.

              "Yes," Akuji continued, "You can feel my touch, can't you?  Do you recognize it?  Is it familiar to you?"

              Akane felt detached from her own body.  She could still see, and hear, and feel; but these senses were subdued and hazy, dreamlike.  She couldn't move; she wasn't sure she could bring herself to _want_ to move.

              "You are so very close, Old One," said the obsidian man, still gently stroking her with tendrils of darkness as he stood several meters away.  "Though time grows short.  The others approach quickly.  They would seek to destroy you.  You are vulnerable while trapped within this female flesh.  Your ritual was interrupted.  I sense your hunger: how many centuries since you last tasted freedom?"

              Rising from somewhere deep within, Akane felt a presence roughly push itself past her fleeting consciousness.  There was a. . . bubble there, an entity dwelling within her she had not even been aware she carried.  It brushed against her as it strove for dominance;

__high vaulted ceilings groan and crack, ancient stone crumbling beneath the pressure of flooding waters, the idiocy of men, air burning and crackling with untamed energies, ice-cold waters flooding the palace, thronged with savaged corpses, final stalwart defender encountering the inevitable, ferocious roars of trapped brethren cut off from their home, walls shuddering with their panicked trashing, heady scent of blood, clashing of metal, high-pitched shriek of the Font, the stone itself sings, the Elder cast down, the Gate stopped, the Font sealed; these fools have destroyed themselves, end of their Age, the dawn of a millennium of chaos, we shall flay the land and the earth shall drink and weep of blood, yet these last fools remain behind, oppose us in their presumption, mere flesh restraining forces primeval, the waters overwhelm them, the power of the Font consumes them yet they persevere, arms high, voices shouting words of power, binding my brethren and I to this world, to the physical, linking us to their Door, our own power entrapping us; even as the last of these men succumb they cast us out into the untamed wilds of their collapsed world, entrapped, waiting, patient, hungry. . . .__

              A moan escaped Akane's lips as she fell deeper into herself, shuddering and shrinking back from that other presence, wholly alien and primal, seizing her flesh and control of her body, her consciousness submerging as incomprehensible images played across her mind.  As she felt herself devoured from within she flashed back to her own room, the ancient tome open in her lap, mucous tendrils wrapped about her chest and face, the same invasive manifestation quickly overtaking her until Ranma's intervention.  A panicked scream rose in her throat as she sank into darkness. . . .

              "You shall have to wait longer."  The smoothness of Akuji's voice turned to steel.  She felt the man approach.  His darkness coiled about her, enveloped her and lifting her from the ground.  The angry droning of her mind faded slightly, and with its retreat consciousness and feeling slowly returned.  The dark presence within pushed back and resisted Akuji's intrusion.  Pain wracked her body, her back arching in agony as two foreign psyches struggled within her own; but after the eerie nothingness of before the pain was nearly welcome.

              "Remain locked away within her mortal flesh, Old One.  Buried within her consciousness.  Your essence secondary to her own, your power enslaved to her weakness."  As Akuji spoke the thing lurking within her sank deeper into the unconscious reaches of her mind.  She regained minor control of her own body.  Fingertips tingled with release.  With something like an inaudible 'pop', she felt the primal force submerge wholly.  She felt herself standing, briefly, before the entirety of her body rushed back to her, the fullness of her pain and exhaustion; and with a whimper she collapsed to the ground, free.

              Dark, glassy legs filled her vision.  Akuji reached down and gently pulled her up.  After a moment she found the strength to stand on her own.  She stared up at the man in amazement.

              "You saved me," she said.  "That--that thing, it almost . . . _ate_ me."  She shuddered, suddenly cold.  "I would have been. . . dead.  Or worse.  You pushed it back."

              "Yes, I did," the obsidian man answered, sounding amused.  He brushed two fingers across her forehead and held them there briefly; the center of her brow felt hot.  "You must remain strong and focused if you wish to keep it at bay.  I can feel its rage.  It radiates from within you in waves.  Such power poised to strike at me, yet blocked by the feebleness of the flesh.  Restrained and trapped within a wretched schoolgirl."  Akuji smooth lips twisted in a wry smile.  "An ironic cage for such a being, don't you think?"

              Akane trembled as she stood before the man.  She couldn't understand what it was she contained.  The images she saw in brushing against that vile presence made no sense to her; but as she recalled her vision her stomach twisted in fear and revulsion.  I was _there_, she thought, I stood beneath vaulting arches and in freezing water and felt the air charged with magic.  The bodies floating and bumping against my legs.  Reptilian cold, scales.  Alien flesh.  Akane licked her lips and tasted phantom blood there, and remembered a terrible hunger, and nearly gagged.

              "Please," she pleaded, "If you can stop it so easily, just . . . take it out of me."

              Akuji threw back his head and laughed, cold and callously.  He grabbed her roughly by the chin and held her, fixing her with his burning gaze.  "Why on earth would I release it from you?"

              "But--"

              "Do you think I saved you out of pity, you stupid little girl?  Freed from you, the Old One could lay waste to this entire city!  It could destroy even _me_!  But locked away within your flesh . . . ah, _then_, little girl, it can be brought to heel and made to serve."  He leaned in close, until his burning eyes filled her vision.  "The fullness of its power lays within you, and yet remains enslaved to your puny human mind."  His hand caressed her cheek, and then gripped the top of her head.  She felt the strength of that grip; he could crush her skull like an eggshell.

              "This soft, weak mind, so easily manipulated, so easily twisted and enslaved.  Only once you have been made subservient to me shall I allow the Old One's return."  His hand stroked the side of her face and settled on her shoulder.  "I feel your trembling.  Your mind quailed at its touch.  Yes, girl, as it rises once again, your mind will no doubt crack and your essence will bleed away--but slowly, and painfully, until only the instinct to serve I shall instill in you remains."  He smiled cruelly.  "Though I would not be surprised if some awareness survived as well-- an awareness of what had been done to you, of the abuses your have endured-- for the eternity that the Old One dwells within your body."

              Akane stared up at the obsidian man in horror.  His smile widened at her expression, the fire of his eyes stabbing straight to her soul and dancing in glee at her fear.

              "There is no hope for you, little one," Akuji said.

"You'd be surprised," called a strong, mocking voice from behind.

              With a snarl, Akuji turned to the newcomer.  "You again!"

              "Akane's _my_ fiancee," exclaimed Ranma Saotome, striding arrogantly from the shadows.  His aura erupted into a fiercely bright corona about him.  "If you want her, you'll have to get through me!"

Continues in:

Chapter Six: The Nature of the Beast.

Chapter Notes:

The bar Akane passes through, the Underground Lounge (the Underlounge) is a real club, but in Osaka, not Tokyo--and it doesn't have a VIP upstairs, at least as far as I know.  If Takahashi giving her 45 000 yen (about $500 CDN) seems unlikely… well, on a night out early into my stay in Japan, my friends and I met some random guy who gave the owner of a bar 40 000 yen to pay for our drinks for the night--and then left.  We didn't know the guy, we didn't talk to the guy, but we certainly loved him after that.

Gabriel's quote, "And when night darkens the streets, then wander forth the Children of Belial, flown with insolence and wine," comes from Milton's Paradise Lost (I believe).

The description of the trainyards in which Akane flees from the Trueblood is hopelessly botched.  Many Japanese trains run off of overhead powerlines, so the creature would be electrocuting himself with each step--and would have to be smashing through all kinds of girders and the like.  If I ever attempt a serious revision, I'll fix it up.

Dave the taxi driver first appeared in a round-robin fanfic attempt way back when.

My description of the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Building is also hopelessly fouled.  Going off of memory and maps of Shinjuku didn't work very well.  Again, I might try to fix it up some day.  Still, it's a pretty cool place, should you get the chance to visit, and offers what is arguable the highest and best view of Tokyo.


	7. The Nature of the Beast, in progress

What has gone before:  
  
Akane's use of a strange book Ranma found led to the inadvertent death of several young girls. Putting an end to the slaughter led the creatures responsible--monstrously transformed humans known as the Children of Belial- -to the Tendo household. Their nighttime assault was repelled, but the leader, Akuji, escaped with Akane. Encountering a rival clan of Belial he released Akane, who fled into Tokyo. For several hours she dodged pursuit, including armored warriors and a gargantuan beast, before finally ending up cornered on the top floor of the Tokyo Metropolitan Building. Akuji prevented Akane from being overwhelmed by the creature contained within her, and revealed his own plans. Just as he sought to capture her once again Ranma caught up with the action. . . .  
  
***  
  
Carl Okada had always wanted to be a lawyer, just like his American father.  
He had studied hard in high school and garnered top grades and had a great shot at getting into a good university. Then one night he had gone for a walk with his girlfriend in the park. The moon had been full and bright overhead. Sakura drifted on the evening wind. One look at the girl by his side and he had suddenly understood that some things were far more important than grades, more important than a good school, more important than any job. The fullness of the love he felt for her at that moment had struck him like a physical blow.  
Then an Assyrian Tenebrion had lunged from the darkness and carried her off. He hadn't known what it was back then, of course. All he saw was something hideous take away the girl he loved. Slitted eyes that gleamed in the night. Chitinous flesh. Hooked claws and gnashing teeth.  
Carl Okada had given chase. When the warriors of the Memra led by then-Armiger Yamashita Ken arrived five minutes later, they found the seventeen-year old standing weak but defiant over the unconscious form of his girlfriend. The young man was bleeding from numerous wounds--but had held the demon at bay long enough for the professionals to catch up. The story of how, unarmed, untrained, and alone, he had managed to chase after and hold off a lesser fiend became somewhat of a legend.  
He became the youngest Aspirant the Memra had known in decades. Five years later he was an Armiger in his own right, though he had followed Yamashita in his defection to the Imrah. And now Carl Okada had a sneaking suspicion that he was about to die.  
Battle raged as the hastily assembled warriors struggled to meet the renewed onslaught of the Children of Belial. The Tokyo Metropolitan Buildings towered overhead, dark monoliths against the night sky. Brilliant lights flared from near the top. Around him inhuman shrieks mingled with the war cries of his brethren, and with the groans of the wounded and dying. The good guys were losing.  
Carl tried to focus. His arms felt numb, his shoulders burned with the simple effort of raising his blade. A man fell to his left, clutching at his throat with crimson spraying from between fingers. A moment later a knight to his right dropped, impaled upon the jagged limb of one of the Children. With a toothy grin it turned upon him. It had too many limbs, stained dark with the blood of many knights.  
How many have fallen already tonight? the young warrior asked himself. How many more will die because of my mistake? I had the girl right in front of me. All I had to do was kill her. A schoolgirl. Begging for her life. None of this would have happened.  
A defiant scream tore itself from his throat as he charged his enemy. His sword flared and cut a brilliant swath through the dark--but the Child of Belial was strong and quick where he was tired and desperate; the attack went wild. He felt his sword leave his grasp; a moment later pain erupted in his side. He stared numbly at the hole in his breastplate. The jagged edges were wet. Carl collapsed wordlessly to his knees. He slumped back, limbs splayed, his breath coming in hot and ragged gasps. Eyes wide and vacant in death stared back at him. An Apprentice of the Imrah. Yasu, a friend, lying dead next to him.  
"So young," the misshapen creature said. It loomed over him, one of its limbs still dripping with Carl's own blood. "To die in such hopeless a cause." An arm ending in a meter-long spike of bone pulled back to deliver the final blow.  
I should've been a lawyer, Carl Okada thought morosely. Far overhead, the top of the Tokyo Metropolitan Building exploded in an incandescent ball of flame.  
  
Let the Curtain Fall by Michael Noakes (Started Dec 11/2002)  
  
A fanfiction set in the Ranma 1/2 world of Rumiko Takahashi. Previous chapters available at   
  
Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;  
Light dies before thine uncreating word:  
Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;  
And universal darkness buries all.  
The Dunciad  
  
Act One, Chapter Six: The Nature of the Beast  
  
Ranma woke with a start. Confusion flitted across his mind: where was he, and why could he see his reflection on the ceiling? A moment later pain slammed into him; he fell back into unconsciousness. An indefinite time later he tried to ease himself into wakefulness once again. Slow breaths. Eyes closed. His mind shuddered as the numbness of sleep faded. Agony lurked at the periphery of his senses. Where was he? He felt the softness of a mattress beneath him. A flash of memory:  
_Flame and howling winds, shards of glass swirling past glittering, and he stood at the center of the maelstrom, burning incandescent but frozen within, as cold as death, his left hand curling into a fist and ensnaring the primal forces swirling past . . . the floor crumbled beneath his feet and the ceiling cracked and gaped open . . . and then she was there, bloodied, limping, launching herself at him with a desperate cry, "Ranma, no!"_  
"Akane!" He shot up in his bed, saw stars, and passed out again.  
A familiar voice filtered through layers of comforting darkness before reaching him. Slowly this time. Ease into the pain. Move through it. Focus on staying awake. He could hear someone's voice again, calling to him, and then movement. One thing at a time. Reach out from you center. Breathe shallowly. Piercing pain across his side--fractured ribs, maybe broken. Deal with it. The muscle over it felt like so much tenderized meat. Further out . . . deep lacerations that were barely clotted over . . . dislocated shoulder . . . burns, frostbite . . . dried blood filling his nose, acrid taste in his mouth . . . a pounding headache hinting at a concussion . . . the litany of injuries was worse than anything he could remember experiencing before. Somewhere not far off he could hear the sound of running water, as if someone was taking a shower. He cracked an eye open-- discovered that the other was swelled shut-- noted that the lights were thankfully dim; and again saw his reflection on the ceiling.  
Shit, he thought, I look worse than I feel. The woman looking down at him belonged in a hospital. Her entire left side was a massive, purpled bruise, but where the discoloration ended the network of crimson slashes continued, long narrow slices crisscrossing her right breast and abdomen. Her face was a bloodied mess. From brow to shin his flesh was a mottled canvas of black and blue. Then he wondered, why am I a girl again? Soon after: and why the hell am I naked? Where am I, and how did I get here?  
Wherever he was, the bed was comfortable and the air nice and warm against his skin. His wounds, while un-bandaged, certainly looked like they had been tended to. Someone had removed his clothes--what little remained, that is--brought him here, and put him to bed. Which begged the question, who? And how? Last I remember, I was a man. I was a man, and fighting--  
  
"Akuji!" he called out, his voice resonating through the vaulting observation deck of the Tokyo Metropolitan Building. He strode boldly from the elevator. "Akane's _my_ fiancée!" His aura erupted into a fiercely bright corona. "If you want her, you'll have to get through me!"  
The obsidian man stood in the center of the room, tall and wreathed in darkness, the smooth lines of ebony flesh glimmering with reflected light. In the dimly lit room Akuji's visage seemed one with the night, but for his eyes blazing like hot coals under a sudden wind. And in front of his opponent stood Akane. Whatever exhaustion, doubt, fear Ranma felt immediately evaporated before the heat of his reawakened rage. His fiancee swayed unsteadily on her feet. She was covered in cuts and bruises, blood flowed freely from numerous wounds, and in her features he saw naked fear and absolute exhaustion. Not even as he cradled her cooling, dying body in his arms a thousand meters over blasted mountains had she seemed so hurt. Her eyes found his. Akane flashed him a tired, wry smile and her eyes burned, it seemed, with hope and confidence reaffirmed. He had finally come. But just as quickly her eyes darkened, and Ranma thought he saw despair there, and then they rolled back into her head and she collapsed to the ground.  
"Akane!" he cried out.  
"Ah, the boy from before." Akuji flowed towards him, and the night seemed to follow in his wake. "I so hoped we would meet again."  
The fury Ranma felt at seeing Akane injured demanded that he leap into combat, but for once he kept his calm. He knew his opponent's name. Had been told that Akuji defeated Cologne--and all his friends. They had fought; Ranma's eyes flicked to his opponent's cheek, and there saw three parallel jagged lines marring the smoothness of Akuji's face.  
"Yes," the dark man said softly.  
Too bad I can't remember, Ranma thought. Under the influence of the cat-fist his memory was spotty at best. The cat-fist had been different this time. After cradling the maimed kitten in Kasumi's room as it mewled indignantly, slowly bleeding to death, there had been the furious descent into feral vengeance. Glimpses of combat only dimly remembered. Ensnaring bands of darkness, and then nothing. If the cat-fist hadn't been enough . . .  
Akuji's lips curled into a smile. "What other tricks do we have, boy? More claws? More flame?"  
Flame?  
His opponent stood several meters away. He slowly spread his arms open as if in invitation. "Come, let us play. We have time enough for that."  
Ranma felt the exhaustion of the night lurking close behind his readiness to fight. The unhealed wounds. The evening's pursuit. He focused on the crumpled form of Akane lying behind the creature confronting him. Nothing else mattered. How many of these arrogant bastards would he have to face, how many Mikado's and Tarou's and Saffron's would try to take her away from him? Ranma's eyes shifted back to Akuji and met his fiery gaze evenly. No more.  
The martial artist took a deep breath, released it.  
_"Hit it hard. Again and again and again until it stops moving."_  
A friend's brutal advice.  
_ You could have torn its heart from its body with your bare hand, shattered its back, severed its limbs._  
A father's final lesson.  
_ glorious suspension between Heaven and Earth _  
Mountains shattered at his feet as the winds screamed and burned.  
And suddenly Ranma felt free. Whatever it takes, he thought. For a moment he felt crystalline--transparent, and the entirety of the Anything Goes School flowed through him, unfettered by doubts, concern for his opponent . . . his entire existence seemed compressed into a fleeting moment . . . and within that moment everything seemed possible.  
"Yeah," Ranma said softly. "Let's play."  
  
Ranma groaned as he shifted in his bed. Moving slowly he looked side to side. He was in some kind of hotel room, he suspected, though nothing like he had stayed in before. There was a large television set into the wall opposite. A bar fridge. Mirrors--lots of them. Soft and dim, ambient light provided gentle illumination. As he took stock of his surroundings he became aware of the sound of movement not far off. At the opposite end of the room there was brighter light from a hallway.  
I have to figure out what's going on, he decided. Willing the pain aside, he slid his legs over the edge of the bed. The rush of blood into his aching limbs nearly made him gasp aloud. Suck it up, he berated himself. It's only going to get worse. Steeling himself, he pushed off with his good arm and jerked into a sitting position.  
Ranma's side erupted in savage pain. _a perfectly formed glassy fist caught him in the side_. He sucked down air, struggling to stay conscious. _the snap of bone, blood spurting from his nose_. The fight hadn't gone well.  
  
Tokyo stretched out in all directions, a myriad sparkling lights reaching to the horizon. These same lights glimmered and slid across the ebon expanse of Akuji's flesh.  
Ranma charged Akuji slid away, eyes blazing. The martial artist slipped into the non-presence of the Umisen-ken. Sheets of darkness sprung up around the Child of Belial. Ranma raced closed. Inky tendrils lashed out wildly to meet him. He leapt over the nearest attack, rolled, sprung forward and slipped between two more; and rising above the wildly thrashing darkness below, Ranma unleashed a blast from his outstretched hands. The brilliant Moko Takabisha cut a swath through the nearest tendrils but broke like a wave on breakers against the night cocoon that suddenly slammed shut around Akuji. When the protective shell dropped Akuji stood unharmed with one arm outthrust. From his palm shot a flurry of midnight darts, jagged rips in space that tore through the air. Ranma ran. The volley gouged the floor behind his heel as he ran. He left the floor and suddenly he was running nearly parallel to the ground, circling his opponent, the windows separating him from the dizzying sprawl of Tokyo hundreds of meters below shattering in his wake, splintering glass tearing his heels. He pushed off, spinning through the air toward his opponent, arms scything a wide arc. His cry of "Kijin Raishu Dan!" was overwhelmed as the curved vacuum screamed toward Akuji. The Yamasen attack tore through Akuji's projectiles. The obsidian man raised one arm defensively. The ki-blade slammed into the waiting forearm. The floor behind groaned and split and tables shattered as the attack broke to either side. A long, thin line flared across the smoothness of Akuji's arm.  
"Well done," Akuji said, lowering his arm. Ranma rose to his feet a dozen meters away. His whole body thrummed like a string expertly plucked. Renewed confidence filled him. The exhaustion of before felt far behind. Almost with curiosity, it seemed, Akuji examined his wound. "Very well done, indeed."  
I've just gotten started, Ranma thought. His eyes flicked back to Akane. None of his attacks had come close to her. The battle had carried Akuji away from her crumpled form.  
The tall, dark man smiled. "No words of defiance?"  
"Let us go," Ranma answered. "I don't want to fight you." A lie. He could triumph where his friends had fallen. He felt gloriously alive. He wanted to tear this monstrosity apart with his bare hands.  
"But I want to fight _you_," Akuji replied.  
"Then leave Akane out of it. Let her go."  
"Let her go? Let her _go_? And where would she go, boy? Into my sister's sweet embrace? Perhaps to the waiting blades of the Imrah? Or would you rather the Pureblood take her?" The obsidian man gave a chuckle. "She is far safer with me."  
"Yeah, sure." Ranma circled his opponent, slowly cross-stepping and maintaining the distance between them. The darkness seemed to coalesce near the feet of Akuji, churning slowly. The Child of Belial released no heat; there wasn't enough ki in the air to form a Hiryuu Shoten Ha. Yet. There were other options. "I don't think so."  
"Will you protect her, then?"  
The hardened resolve of Ranma's eyes were answer enough.  
Akuji's steps brought him closer to Akane once again. She stirred on the floor, one hand clutching at her head, the other pushing feebly against the ground in an effort to raise herself. "Then come take her from me."  
Without a sound and before the final word had even registered, Ranma was racing straight for his opponent. Seething walls of shadow rose up to meet him, as expected; with an almost idle flick of his wrist he clove through the darkness with a ki-blast, the other arm held cocked back with palm up and fingers together, and even as the murk roiled and reformed and reached for him he leapt through. Akuji stood with an almost bemused expression.  
"BELIAL!" Ranma roared with the fierceness of his strongest kiai. Akuji's eyes widened--the slight shock the martial artist needed to exploit the opening technique of the Moko Kaimon Ha. In that brief moment of his opponent's paralyzation Ranma thrust forward with all his might. Dokuja Tanketsu Sho, his father's deadly Yamasen technique. A spear hand with which to tear out his enemy's heart. So powerfully did Ranma strike that the air itself seemed to seethe with his hand's passage.  
A hand snapped shut around his wrist. Akuji held him in a grip as solid as mountains, as cold as the winds. Ranma could feel the flesh as cool as marble beneath the tip of his reaching fingers. He could feel the newly formed crack there. His eyes widened in disbelief. He hadn't even seen the arm move.  
"Such a valiant effort," said Akuji. He was no longer smiling. "So many tricks. But not enough; never enough." His grip tightened and effortlessly he lifted Ranma off the ground. "Shall I finish what I began earlier this night?"  
Ranma gritted his teeth against the pain. At the edge of his vision he saw the darkness flare up once again, reaching for him with inky tendrils. A feral memory returned:  
_Howls of frustration turned to screams of pain. Glacial cold cut through the heat of his fire._  
"Like hell you will," he snarled. He aura burst into scintillating radiance, tinted a lurid red at the edges. The darkness retreated. Braced against his enemy's grip he snapped a savage kick into Akuji's side. A normal opponent's ribcage would have buckled and shattered. The monster barely flinched, but briefly his grip weakened. Ranma pulled free. With deft agility he pushed off of his opponent's side with his kicking foot and jackknifed over Akuji's shoulder. The broad spread of an undefended back. Hakuda Toshin Shou: a hundred strikes battering his target even as he fell.  
A cry of rage. Akuji twisted around before Ranma even hit the ground. Smoldering eyes blazing bright and furious. A perfectly formed glassy fist catching him in the side. The snap of bone, blood spurting from his nose even as the impact hurled Ranma away. He hit the ground with his shoulder and felt the sickening snap of it dislocating. He slid wildly across the room smashing through tables and chairs. There was a sudden lurch as he hit the edge of the observation lounge, as his momentum jerked him back into the air. With a loud crack he slammed spread-eagle into a window. He had a brief, vertiginous glimpse of Tokyo spread out hundreds of meters below--of lights streaking and flaring in the courtyard--of his glorious suspension between heaven and earth; and then the glass shattered.  
  
Ranma sat at the edge of the bed, fighting down nausea. It was all he could do to remain awake. The pounding in his head was unreal. Akuji had nearly ended the fight with a single punch. Nothing had ever hit him so hard; not Herb, relentlessly hammering him with ki attacks, not even Ryouga, imbedding him in a rock face during the training for the Hiryuu Shoten Ha.  
Behind the injuries and past the pain, Ranma gradually became aware of another concern. The pervasive exhaustion he felt went beyond being physically drained or tired. He felt . . . hollow inside, or thin somehow, empty and cold. Cold. He looked at his good hand and beneath the bruises and cuts and dried blood, he recognized the flaky blackness of burnt flesh. The heat for his final attack had had to come from somewhere.  
  
Instinct and luck saved him. Instinct caused him, dazed as he was, to frantically twist away from the dizzying fall before him; luck caused his foot to be snagged by a power line exposed after his tumble across the floor. He fell to the ground hard, broken shards of glass raining down around him. Ranma forced a heaving, desperate breath as he clutched at his side. Even as air filled his lungs his stomach gave a spasm and blood filled his mouth and spattered the floor.  
The pain was impossible. The confidence of before was shattered. Akuji was toying with him. The speed with which had turned, the strength of that single attack: impossible. I didn't even see him move, he thought. Blood bubbled on his lips as Ranma gasped for breath. I can't fight that. He couldn't, he couldn't even feel his right arm, nothing but the pain and wind howling through the shattered window behind him.  
"Is that all, then?" The deep, resounding voice sounded from far too close. Ranma forced his eyes open. Akuji was standing over him. Not standing--hovering, a half-meter off the ground. Ranma tried to push away with his good hand. Glass crunched under his palm. His fingers were broken and bloodied after striking the steely expanse of Akuji's back. His arm shook beneath his weight. Across the room he saw Akane. She too was struggling to stand, and failing. Her eyes met his, dark beneath the sweep of her hair.  
"Not . . . by a long shot," Ranma said. He slowly rose on trembling legs. With every breath his side burned. The cool clarity of earlier was shattered and gone, but in its place a deep anger began to smolder. "Not until you let Akane go."  
"How glorious." Akuji smiled. "You are ready to die for her."  
"No," Ranma snarled. "I'm ready to kill for her."  
His opponent's smile grew. "Such proud, insolent words!" Akuji gestured towards Akane. "Do you know what I have planned for this woman of yours? The presence she holds will consume her, eventually. Nothing can prevent that. It would have possessed her body already had I not been here this night." The ebony man turned back to Ranma. "She would become Ceph'ad, a slave to the Book." Akuji paused. "You have no idea what that means."  
"I don't care," Ranma said. He ground his teeth in frustration. The words meant nothing to him. The rage he felt grew and spread through his limbs. The pain withdrew. It never ended. These psychotic godlings and their arrogance, their stupid speeches and their disregard. Akane was his. Nothing was going to happen to her. Maybe I can't beat him, Ranma thought. But I don't have to lose, either. As long as Akane gets away. That's all that matters.  
"No, of course it doesn't," Akuji said, and smiled condescendingly. "All you can see is this girl. This puny girl, this fleshy prison, this immediate conflict. Never mind that within her dwells the Cephim. The Book made flesh for the first time in centuries." He swung his arm in a sweeping arc. "Did you not see, boy? Imrah and Memra fighting together once again . . . my sister exposing herself so flagrantly . . . daring so much as to oppose even me! . . . all this, veils of secrecy torn asunder and mysteries you can not even fathom exposed--and all you care for is this silly, stupid little girl who brought it all upon herself?"  
The martial artist began to glow. His hand clenched into a tight fist at his side. "Akane might be silly," Ranma said. "And stupid. And unfeminine. Slow, too. And she can't cook." His aura grew brighter as his fury grew stronger. Briefly lived flames licked the air. "But none of that matter, none of your stupid secrets . . . it's all bullshit." How many deaths in the last few days? Innocent schoolgirls. His father. "This ain't her fault. It's mine. Yours. But that's not important."  
Akuji tilted his head, as if genuinely curious. "If neither mystery nor girl nor reason is important--what is?"  
"Nothing, really." Ranma smiled cockily. "Well, 'cept for the fact that right here, right now, I'm gonna kick your shiny black ass."  
Ranma lunged at his enemy. He tapped into that fiery, seething power he had first embraced earlier that night. Something had happened, something powerful enough to destroy most of the Tendos' house and drive away his opponent. He didn't fully understand what is was nor how to use it; he didn't know if he could control it. Something Cologne had warned him against. The brightest flame burns quickest. Well, I'm about to burn brighter than ever before, he thought. I'll burn until there's nothing left, if that's what it takes.  
The air sizzled with his passage, his strikes tracing luminescent trails against the night, the air burning in his lungs . . . The speed of his attacks took him by surprise. Yet it still wasn't enough. With infuriating ease Akuji seemed to dodge every hit, always floating just outside of his reach, smirking slightly. Ranma began to grunt with every punch and kick, panting as he chased after his foe. Their dance carried them along the periphery of the observation lounge. The air began to grow hot and heavy, almost visibly swirling in their wake. Ranma's attacks began to slow. I have to try it now, he thought. Before I'm totally exhausted. Before there's nothing left. He quailed at the thought of what he had to do next. What if he wasn't tough enough? Suck it up. If this works--don't even know what I'm doing!--if this works, maybe Akane can get away. His anger wasn't entirely spent; not yet. Yet he turned away from it and allowed his rage to bleed away. He threw a final lunging punch that fell short and weak. He fell to one knee, panting.  
"A most impressive effort," Akuji said, sliding closer. From over crossed armed he stared down at Ranma. "I wish the Cephim had chosen you as its host, for then our games would not have to end. Not that you care, I'm sure. Nevertheless, shattering your will would have been a most delectable pleasure. The girl, I fear, will succumb too easily."  
Akuji's words sent an icy thrill through Ranma. Good, he thought. "That's . . . what you think." Ranma forced himself to stand. "I'm not done with you yet."  
"You begin to annoy me, boy."  
"The name's Ranma, you red-eyed freak." Through blood-caked lips, he smirked. "And I ain't afraid of you. I killed your family. Tore them apart with my bare hands." He grew colder with every word. With visceral remembrance he remembered the flesh parting beneath his hands; the splintering of bone; the spray of blood and cry of joy; the savage joy. "And Akuji? I still want to play."  
The obsidian man was no longer smiling. His eyes flared brightly. He uncrossed his arms, and his hand curled into tight fists.  
"Yeah, that's right, asshole." Ranma said. "So what you gonna do about it?"  
He was a burning flame suspended in frost. He was rage trapped within a soul of ice. For a moment raw terror nearly undid him and threatened the tenuous state in which Ranma held himself. Akuji attacked. What if he takes me out? Ranma thought. What if I lose control? But his will remained strong, even as Akuji slammed a fist into the martial artist's face.  
Through the sudden pain Ranma struggled to remain conscious, fought to hold onto his cool detachment as his head snapped back, as the impact picked him up and sent him corkscrewing across the room . . . he couldn't think, he couldn't see . . . his icy will stabbed a spiraling hole through the ki-dense air . . .and by some instinct he twisted in the air and landed in a low three-point crouch next to Akane in the center of the room, and saw Akuji standing dark and terrible through a narrow tunnel that cut through the seething air.  
"Akane. Is. Mine!" Ranma howled. He punched forward--  
  
How long ago had it been? Nearly two years? Sitting on the edge of the bed in some strange room, struggling to remain conscious, Ranma remembered a time long ago: dancing a cold circle around Ryouga as his sometimes friend, sometimes nemesis, attacked him with dangerous fury. The first Hiryu Shoten Ha Ranma had ever unleashed. The effort had left him drained and battered--unconscious, even.  
How far had he come since then? He'd laid dragon-kin and fire-god low with his mastery of the dragon's ascent. Against Saffron I threw out three blasts in a row, Ranma thought, without breaking a sweat. Against Ryouga my spiral had to be absolutely perfect. But with Akane's life on the line. . . . That final technique had been different. For a fleeting moment it had seemed like the winds and flame had responded to his will, twisting exactly as needed to cleave the dragon spout cleanly and have it land pointing upwards. An impossibility, of course. The Amazonian technique didn't work that way.  
With Akane restored in his arms he hadn't given it any more thought. Until after the return from Jusenkyo. Cologne hadn't like his line of questioning, and now Ranma was beginning to understand why.  
  
--and the soul of ice shattered. "Hiryuu Shotenha Henkei!" This is it, he thought. Everything I've got left. Have to take this bastard out. Give Akane time, time to run away. "Hiryu Jigokufuu Ha!"  
Even as the words tore themselves from his lips he felt an incredible rush of power. Ranma felt the hot air coalesce d and raged behind him; and before him the narrow channel left by his passage, icy cold. He felt himself at the nexus of primal and opposing energies. There was a moment of nearly stunning silence--and then a thunderous roar as the superheated air surged past--funneled into a tight swirling blast--and then the winds suddenly erupted into brilliant flame.  
The darkness that surrounded Akuji slammed shut. Ranma's attack drilled into the inky wall. His fierce cry pierced through the howl of the winds and fire. Fist outthrust, he continued to channel forward the seething energy that filled the room. Akuji's wall held . . . wavered . . . and suddenly was torn asunder. Ranma's Heavenly Dragon Infernal Storm struck the Child of Belial directly in the chest. All the windows in a wide arc behind his target shattered. He briefly saw Akuji give a soundless cry of disbelief before being flung backwards, out into the night air, wreathed in fire.  
Flame and howling winds, shards of glass swirling past glittering, and he stood at the center of the maelstrom, burning incandescent but frozen within, as cold as death, his left hand curling into a fist and ensnaring the primal forces swirling past. Ranma felt a savage thrill run through him. Take that, you bastard.  
A moment later there was a loud detonation. The concussion knocked him off his feet. Blinded by wind and heat, it took him a moment to realize what was happening. The energy from his attack was far from dispersed. Unfocussed, it exploded outward. The whirlwind expanded and filled the space available. The remaining windows blew out, before the swirling winds sucked the glittered glass shards back into the observation room. The full power of the cyclone drilled into the ceiling above and shattered the concrete below. Pipes cracked and electrical conduits split and sparked.  
Shit! How do I turn this thing off? he thought dazedly as, at the center of it all, he desperately hunted through teary eyes for Akane. She sat dazedly on the floor, staring into the maelstrom with a blank gaze. She didn't even flinch as an errant splinter of glass, razor sharp, zipped past and sliced her neatly across the brow.  
"Akane!" He screamed to be heard over the howling winds. She didn't respond. I've got get her out of here, Ranma thought. He struggled to stand and almost collapsed back to the floor. He felt utterly drained. No! He railed against his weakness, against the feebleness of his flesh. Not yet . . . I've got to get to her . . . got to get her out of here! "Akane! We have to--"  
A table whirling past caught him in the back of the head. He pitched forward and hit the floor chin first. He fought against the darkness threatening at the edge of his vision. Blood filled his mouth. Akane was close . . so close. With supreme effort he crawled towards her, hauling himself forward with his good hand. The ground began to split beneath his body. His back felt seared by random gouts of flame flowing across him. His fingers touched skin. He lurched forward and suddenly she was in his arms. Ranma cradled Akane to his chest as wind and flame and stone swirled around them, as the floor crumbled beneath his feet and the ceiling cracked and gaped open. "I'm sorry, Akane," he whispered into her hair. "I . . . I did my best but it wasn't enough." I won the fight but now it's going to kill us. "I don't think I can get us out of here." He took her face in his hands and stared deep into her eyes. She still seemed dazed--unfocused- -and gazed emptily back at him. "I'm sorry." In moments the floor would give way, and then what? Would the winds grab them and pummel them into the floors beneath? Or would they be launched hundreds of meters into the air above? Then the energy would disperse, the winds would die down, and . . . .  
Ranma leaned forward and kissed Akane on the forehead. "I'm sorry," he said again, and then with strength that only came with absolute conviction he stood. The fist of his good arm clenched into a tight fist. The cyclone could be dispersed. If he released another blast and channeled the excess energy into the night sky, the winds would die down, the fires would die out . . . Akane would survive.  
With chill certainty he knew that he would not.  
He reached out to ensnare the energies rushing past . . . grew cold within . . . drew back to throw his final punch . . .  
. . . and then she was there, bloodied, limping, launching herself at him with a desperate cry, "Ranma, no!"  
There was a brief, dizzying moment as Akane's tackle carried them away from the center of the maelstrom . . .as the winds grabbed them and tossed them wildly through the air . . . and then launched them into the night sky. Tokyo swirled madly hundreds of meters below. The top of the tower buckled behind them and exploded in an incandescent ball of flame.  
And they were falling, and then everything went black.  
  
Ranma's eyes widened in disbelief as the memories rushed back. We were . . . falling. I had Akane in my arms. I lost consciousness.  
He looked around the room, and down at his battered and bloodied body. How the hell did I get here? Wherever 'here' is. He heard footsteps. There was somebody else in the hotel room. Ranma suddenly felt vulnerable and helpless--he felt weaker than he could ever remember. Unconsciously, he held his breath until the stranger stepped into the room and into view.  
She was naked but for the towel she was using to dry herself with. Her skin was smooth and unmarred by even the slightest of blemish. She didn't have a single wound that he could see. "Ranma, you're awake!"  
Akane beamed down at him, smiling broadly. 


End file.
